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_Title:_ Lemon in the Basket
_Date of first publication:_ 1967
_Author:_ Charlotte Armstrong (ps. of Charlotte Armstrong Lewi)
  (1905-1969)
_Date first posted:_ June 19, 2026
_Date last updated:_ June 19, 2026
Faded Page eBook #20260641

This eBook was produced by: Mardi Desjardins, Pat McCoy & the online
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                          [Cover Illustration]




                              =CHARLOTTE=
                              =ARMSTRONG=

                         _Lemon In The Basket_

                             [Illustration]

                         =Coward-McCann, Inc.=
                               =New York=




               _Copyright © 1967 by Charlotte Armstrong_

                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




                         _Lemon In The Basket_


                                   1

The under sides of the trees were awash in light. All around the terrace
fat yellow candles burned under hurricane hoods, sending off subtle
fumes to charm the insects away. Within the magic circle, the summer
table was daintily spread; white-webbed chairs were comfortable and
cool. The eight people gathered here seemed, on the whole (one of them
was thinking), very handsome and civilized, and worthy of paradise.

They were just the family. Here sat a man and his wife, their three
grown sons, and the women those sons had married. All here were Tylers,
and here were all the adult Tylers. Tamsen, the youngest and newest of
them, who had been Mrs. Duncan Tyler for just a half a year and was not
quite yet completely out from under the halo of her wedding veil, was
seeing the scene and sensing the whole with an especial delight. She
thought it was none the less paradise for being a private one.

When the Judge, her father-in-law, rose to his feet, down at the other
end of the table, she corrected herself. _He_ isn’t handsome at all, she
thought fondly, but he is certainly civilized. William Rufus Tyler (who
was not, in fact, a judge anymore) had a tall gangly set of bones. His
high sloping shoulders were silhouetted against the glimmers on the
surface of the pool that lay behind him, in the dark reaches of the
lawn. His white brows, raised to ask for attention, were bushy crescents
on his long, tanned forehead. The candlelight was kind to the small
half-moons of flesh that sagged under his steady eyes and were
complemented by the double roll that made a ruff under his long chin.
It’s a clown face, thought Tamsen (the artist), and yet it isn’t
comical, nor is it pathetic. It is . . . she captured the word she
wanted . . . endearing!

The Judge was going to be ceremonious. He lifted his goblet of light
wine. “As you may know,” he began, his deep voice easy on the quiet air,
“there is being built in the new Cultural Center a theatre of some
magnificence. It is my pleasure to announce its newly chosen name. Shall
we toast the Maggie Mitchel Theatre? Or shall we toast Maggie?”

It was the family custom to applaud in a mere pitter-patter, not loud,
and in a quick light rhythm. All, applauding, now turned their faces
toward the woman at the other end of the table, who was their mother,
and yet also, in her own right, “the incomparable Maggie Mitchel,” and
still a first lady of the American Theatre, although she had not been on
a stage for years. Tamsen, pattering away with the rest, watched Maggie
take her bow with her own skillful perfection. Just right, thought
Tamsen approvingly. None of this phony surprise, or “Who, little me?”
stuff. Nor does she look too solemn, as if she took herself awfully
awfully seriously. Now, how does she do that?

Maggie Mitchel Tyler was not a large woman. Her flesh was still compact.
She was not a pretty woman and never had been, but she could be
beautiful, if she liked, or anything else, for that matter. It isn’t a
rubber face, thought Tamsen, who had long ago despaired of ever painting
Maggie’s portrait. Still, Maggie knew how to manage so that one saw
through her face to whatever she wished to seem to be thinking. Tamsen
felt close to her mother-in-law. She and Maggie were in the arts and
although they were not in the same art, there was a communication.

“Good going, Maggie,” said her oldest son. His wife, Phillida, said
gaily, “For whom else should they name a theatre of some magnificence?”

“Wonderful,” said the middle son. And Lurlene, his wife, cried, “Say,
Maggie, that’s really something!”

Tamsen put in shy congratulations and her husband, the youngest brother,
said, “Well, well, after all those fragile little old light bulbs, now
they are going to carve your name in stone, eh, Maggie?”

Maggie’s voice was, of course, a trained instrument. “In marble, on my
gilded monument,” she said with a touch of mischievous ham.

They drank. As the Judge sat down, Maggie, who was sixty-two years old,
contrived to flow to her feet and Tamsen, aware that all arts have their
techniques, thought to herself, Now, how does she do that?

“However,” said Maggie, “since we are just the family—” (This was a
code phrase and meant “don’t tell.”) “I think we must put a make-believe
past behind and drink to something real and present. There is soon to be
created a Fact Finding Committee, to which the President of the United
States intends to appoint, and appoint to act as the head of it, a
certain William Rufus Tyler. Your father, children, will be shooting
trouble of some size.” Maggie, lifting her glass, looked the very image
of the proud little wife who does not really know what her husband does
in his business, but is sure that he does it very well.

The pattering exploded. Duncan said, “Facts, eh? Otherwise, knocking
stubborn heads together in a fatherly sort of way?” In spite of his
teasing tone, his broad and boyish face was radiating pride.

What a pair they are, thought Tamsen, as proud as he. Maggie and the
Judge! She thought of something and wailed, suddenly, “You’ll be going
away to Washington?”

“Washington!” said Lurlene with a startled look, as if the connection
President-Washington had not occurred to her.

“Ah, well,” said the Judge, “Maggie is being a bit premature. Shall we
say that the real-and-present fact is, I seem to be considered for the
job?”

“But just to be considered,” said Rufus, the middle son, rather
solemnly, “that’s quite an honor, Dad.”

“Indeed it is,” said the Judge agreeably.

“And quite a chore, if P.S. he gets the job,” said Phillida in her
blithe way. “But speaking of honors . . .”

Now Phillida Tyler was up. She was a tall slim woman, always perfectly
groomed, with a handsome face that seemed to reflect a composure in her
mind. She and Maggie, Tamsen thought, are both strong, or even
dominating, women, but so differently. Maggie dominates because if she
speaks or even just walks into a room, you are compelled to look and
listen, and there is no telling how she does that. But Phillida operates
behind the scenes. People do what she wants them to do, but she doesn’t
especially want them to realize that. It is just that what she wants
them to do is the best way to accomplish some good purpose. Tamsen and
Phillida had, so far, gone their separate ways, but with great goodwill
and admiration for each other, just the same.

“Shall we drink to Dr. Mitchel Tyler,” said Phillida in her clear crisp
voice, “for whom a new operating theatre and a whole floor of the new
wing has been designated to provide a place where he is to perform and
to teach a certain surgical technique already known in the trade as the
‘Mitchel Tyler’?” She wound up, not even breathless.

Before the applause was over, the oldest Tyler son stood up, as Tamsen
had somehow known he would. She began to squirm with the knowledge that
here, at this not unusual family Sunday night supper, on the east
terrace of the Tyler house in San Marino, California, on a night in
August—this time, something was ballooning. An inflation was happening.
Eight people on a summer evening, and among them Maggie, whom the world
called “incomparable,” and the Judge, whom the world trusted, and Dr.
Mitchel Tyler, who had earned a clearing of his path toward an even
greater contribution to the world. All these honors and more to come!
More to come!

“If we are naming names,” the Doctor began a little gruffly. Mitchel
Tyler was not short, but burly enough to seem shorter than his
five-eleven. His face, however, was thin, and his dark good looks gave a
sharp effect as if he were destined to become wizened, and not too long
hence. Tamsen thought he was both clever and brave and she was glad he
was alive.

“In the wall of the new Free Clinic for Handicapped Children, in the
Valley,” Phillida’s husband said, “there will be embedded a bronze
plaque in praise of Phillida Tyler.”

“Who worked very hard.” The Judge beamed, when another spate of lively
pattering was fading.

“Who scampered about, raising the money,” said Phillida impudently. “Oh,
it’s money that counts, you know.”

“My goodness,” said Lurlene weakly, “everybody’s names!”

Rufus said, “Well, well, well. A Tyler here and a . . .”

But Tamsen had gathered up her nerve. Was it her turn? Yes, surely it
was her turn now. So she stood up, abruptly, before she should lose the
nerve to do this, a small girl, small and dainty enough to seem more of
a child than she was, at twenty-five. She had pinned her long dark hair
up neatly for this occasion. Her brilliant eyes were looking frightened
in her small face, and her voice, ordinarily soft and low, came out too
shrilly, she feared, in her effort to give it volume. And too soon,
because it cut off Rufus.

“Shall we toast—” she said. “Oh, excuse me, Rufus.”

“. . . and a Tyler there,” he finished lamely and fell silent.

“Shall we toast,” Tamsen began again, “Professor Duncan Tyler, who has
just been appointed Vice-Chancellor of the University’s newest branch,
to take office in January?”

She did not feel that she had put her news as gracefully as the others
had known how to do, so she sat down in a fluster. But the pitter-patter
of hands rose even faster than before. This made five out of the eight
of them that the world was choosing to honor.

Duncan was saying, “And don’t tell me I’m too young, because that’s
_been_ said.”

“Of course you are not too young,” said Maggie, making her face as
fierce as a terrier’s. “What has age to do with it?”

“Never fear,” said Phillida. “That job will age him rapidly.”

“Good going, Duncan,” said the Doctor. “That is, if you want
administration.”

Duncan was answering that he did, and why, when Tamsen saw that Lurlene
was licking her lips and looking lost. “Vice-Chancellor just means . . .
well . . . sub-chief,” she said because Lurlene might not know. Tamsen
felt a rustling beside her. She turned. “Wouldn’t you say, Rufus?” It
was her impulse to defer to him, in some way.

Duncan, abandoning his own exchanges, said, “Hey, if it weren’t for old
Rufus, pretty soon all Chiefs, no Indians.”

Tamsen winced, but to her surprise Rufus answered cheerfully. “Fewer
Indians every day. How about some more firewater for us Indians, eh
Tamsen?”

Tamsen dimpled at such wit. “Oh, us Indians . . .”

But there was Duncan, getting to his feet.

“Oh, gosh,” said Tamsen under her breath. (More to come!) She felt
Maggie’s quick supporting sympathy as Maggie caught her shyness and then
threw it away from them both. Even Maggie was riding above herself, as
they all were. Or almost all.

“You may conclude,” said Duncan in his most pompous lecturer’s voice,
that he didn’t often use on Sundays, “that we must be, on the whole,
Very Important People, with our names, one way or another, on their way
into the history books. But if you would care to consider immortality,
you must include the fact that _Tamsen_ Tyler has been hung!”

“Oh, _ho_!” cried Maggie, as her fingers pattered.

“Is that so?” beamed the Judge, inane with pleasure.

“What do you mean, _hung_?” said Lurlene in a startled whine.

“Twenty by twenty-five inches, County Art Museum,” said Duncan, losing
his professorial pose and looking even younger than his chronological
age of thirty-three. “One oil.” He thumped down.

“Darned good going, Tamsen.” That was Mitch.

Phillida leaned around to cry, “I’m hanging on to my original.”

Lurlene said, “But I mean, _hung_?”

“Oh, well, that’s a phrase they use in the trade. It means . . .” Duncan
began to translate, kindly.

Maggie picked up her little bell to summon Hilde and the shrimp, because
the balloon had gone as far as it could go.

But Tamsen, who was often painfully aware of all kinds of invisible
currents, heard herself saying to Rufus Tyler, the second son, “I’m just
lucky, you know. It doesn’t take too many brains . . .” She caught her
breath and hurtled on. “I only keep thinking how my children are going
to be proud. It is a wonderful thing just to belong to this family!”

Then she felt like dying. She had sinned; she had gushed.

He didn’t answer. His large eyes rolled in her direction, briefly. He
was thirty-four years old and already getting bald. His round face
pinched in at the bottom to a tiny pointed chin. His full lips did not
move.

But Lurlene was gushing responsively, “It certainly is, Tamsen. It’s
like too much! I mean, how lucky can you—”

Maggie came in, stepping on that line, to say, “Oh, did I tell you? I’ve
had another letter from Alice Foster.”

The talk must turn. It was right and proper for the family to toast
those of its members who had been honored by the world. Six out of
eight! And to enjoy all this in concert. It was right and proper to
celebrate each individual’s achievement, but the Tylers were not going
into a long session of group-gloating. Not if Maggie could help it, and
she could. Tamsen approved.

Maggie had chosen a good subject to swing this supper party into another
mood and another pattern. Tamsen knew all about it.

Duncan said quickly, “No. What’s up in Alalaf?”

But Tamsen, for a moment, only half listened. She was ashamed to have
been so clumsy, that her intention to be tactful had come out
insultingly. She didn’t look at Rufus but watched Lurlene, who had
presentably fine features, a straight nose, well-shaped eyes, a good
enough chin, but whose hairdo had emerged from some neighborhood beauty
parlor and bore no relation to her face or personality; whose body, at
not much more than thirty, was slopping into too many soft lumps, whose
dress was too busy with too many printed flowers and did not flatter the
body, whose basically well-cut mouth was wearing a twist on it.

Or was Tamsen imagining? When that mouth opened too wide to receive too
large a portion of the shrimp cocktail, and a bright fingernail came up
to push in a spot of sauce at the mouth’s corner, Tamsen turned her
eyes. She had never yet had what could be called a conversation with
Lurlene Tyler. Tamsen sighed and began to pay attention.

“Alice, and Jaylia too, are really pushing, and it doesn’t do to
underestimate them, you know,” Maggie was saying. She became a Sybil,
with veils. “It will happen.”

“What will happen?” Rufus rumbled.

Tamsen knew what Maggie expected to happen. A little boy’s life was
going to be saved. And the fact that this little boy was a member of the
royal family in a small country all the way around at the other side of
the earth would make no difference. The Tylers would save him. Tamsen
couldn’t help agreeing with Maggie. She felt a mystic certainty,
tonight, that anything the Tylers proposed to achieve would be achieved.
Oh, there were complications and impediments, but no matter.

This Alice Foster was a woman with whom Maggie had gone to school, long
ago. A person, Tamsen had gathered, of some force, who, although seldom
seen, had retained, as some people know how to do, her status as an old
chum, forever loyal. Alice Foster’s only daughter had married a young
man who was a prince, and however small his country, he was not only
rightfully a prince, he had been in line to become a king.

But this prince was dead; he had been killed in a spectacular accident.
His little boy was now, by several strokes of fate, in line to become
the King of Alalaf, when the present monarch, the child’s aging
grandfather, should die, or as soon thereafter as the boy himself came
of age.

The question was, would he ever become of age? The little prince had a
very serious physical defect. Tamsen knew it had to do, somehow, with
his heart. This condition was expected to end his life fairly soon
unless something drastic was done about it.

It was Duncan who had discovered all this and involved the Tylers. A
year ago, Duncan the college professor had, through the channels of the
old friendship between Maggie and Alice Foster, been invited to the tiny
kingdom of Alalaf, to visit the new university which the fabulously
wealthy old king had very recently caused to be built in his capital
city. Once there, Duncan had, of course, been entertained at the Palace
and he had then heard about the child’s condition. So Duncan had
bethought himself of his brother, Dr. Mitchel Tyler, and his brother’s
position as the pioneering expert in the field.

At last, at last, and only last week, the Doctor had been invited and
implored to come and see. So Mitch had flown to Alalaf, where in
conference with the doctors there and by what examination he was able to
make on the spot, he had held out hope that if the boy could be brought
to Mitch in his own hospital, where he had his batteries of instruments
and aides, perhaps he could, as Mitch would put it, be patched up.

This was progress, of a sort, but evidently there were still
complications and impediments. Had the Prince been a Pauper, Tamsen
surmised rather sadly, he would have come long ago.

“Will it be awkward for you, Judge, if this happens?” Phillida was
saying with bright devotion. She must mean politically.

“No, no,” said the Judge. “Can’t have that.”

“Why?” said Rufus. “What’s awkward?” His gaze rolled all around the
table and lit on Tamsen, finally.

He seemed to have no clue to the conversation, so Tamsen said, “You all
go so fast.” She made herself plaintive. “Some of us can’t follow.
Please?”

“Well, you see, honey . . .” Duncan began to explain. He knew that
Tamsen could follow well enough and was only trying to be kind. But
Duncan was with her. Tamsen sent him her sparkling gratitude. “There’s
politics,” said Duncan flatly. “The old King of Alalaf—Al Asad is the
handiest of his names—is not only notoriously anti-American as well as,
parenthetically, anti-everybody else, but it so happens that Americans
are pretty anti-him at the moment.” Duncan couldn’t help this racing
along. “Ever since he clonked twenty-eight American professors into the
hoosegow, according to his royal whim, last week.”

“Oh,” said Rufus, “that’s right. I heard it on TV. I see what you mean.”

Tamsen thought, No, he doesn’t.

And to her shock, the Doctor said, “No, you don’t, Rufus, old boy. Just
sit tight.”

Tamsen began to rephrase what Duncan had said, in her own mind. The King
of Alalaf has just arrested twenty-eight Americans on suspicion of
espionage, and Americans don’t like that. Therefore, Alalaf is, at the
moment, in the bad graces of the news-conscious people of this country.
Therefore . . .

“That does make everything a _little_ awkward,” said Maggie and glided
smoothly on. “Did you meet those men at the University there, Duncan?”

“I met some of them, sure,” Duncan said. “Just a bunch of
poor-but-honest schoolteachers trying to get along. Not obviously the
cloaks-and-daggers that Al Asad, may his tribe increase, is saying _he_
thinks they are. Of course, who knows?”

“Our government is going to have something to say about this, eh, Dad?”
said Rufus smugly. “I’ll bet there’s pressure on.”

Rufus wants to play inside-dopester, thought Tamsen as she watched the
Judge move his shoulders, refusing to state what inside dope he might
really know. The Judge had long ago given up the bench, so Duncan had
told her, for the exercise of his native talent, which was that of
negotiation, the art of the possible, or compromise. How could he give a
wise and seasoned answer to a question so . . . well . . . inept?

Phillida answered. “Now, Rufus,” she chided in her gay and somewhat
mocking manner, “you’ve seen by the papers that we are definitely
frowning.” Then she said to the Judge, “But if Mitch is going to take
the knife to the heir to the throne and the idol of the people of
Alalaf, and Maggie takes his mama in, here, as I suppose she will—”

“Of course,” said Maggie. “Of course, for pity’s sake! Alice Foster’s
daughter!”

“But won’t that seem pro-Alalaf, at a bad time?”

“No, no,” said the Judge. “I can blame my wife’s compassionate heart and
transcend politics, can’t I?”

“Pretty All-American, that,” said Duncan. “And All-American Mitch had
better be right, I suppose.”

Tamsen, who was following all this, knew that not everyone here could
follow and it made her uneasy.

“If Mitch says that the poor little fellow will benefit from the
operation, then, of course, he will,” proclaimed Maggie.

“I say he _may_,” Mitch corrected. “I’ll need him here a while before I
add up the chances.”

“Say . . . uh . . . whose little fellow is this?” said Lurlene. “Excuse
me, but you all go so fast.” Her eyes thanked Tamsen for the phrase and
Tamsen smiled at her.

“The King’s grandson,” said Duncan kindly. “The heir to the throne.
Eleven years old. Saiph, they call him. Al Saiph, I guess it should be.”

“For heaven’s sakes,” said Lurlene rather skeptically.

“So you’d better be right, eh, Mitch?” Rufus repeated Duncan’s phrase
just as if it were new and his own. But he was catching on, now.

“You’re damned right, I’d better be right,” said the Doctor genially,
“and, if asked, I expect to be. Cool it, everybody.”

“And thanks a lot, Duncan,” said Phillida merrily, “for getting Mitch
into this one.”

“Who, me?” drawled Duncan. “Can I help it if I’m there to look at the
old King’s shiny new University and Alice Foster and the Princess Jaylia
happen to mention that the boy’s got this trouble and I just happen to
have a brother who happens to be the only wizard extant? Taken them a
year to do anything about it,” he grumbled. He was a man who liked
things done.

“Alice Foster’s grandson is not my patient yet,” said Mitch.

“Wait a minute,” Rufus said. “Alice Foster’s grandson has got to be half
American. So how can the King be anti-American?”

“The child is a quarter, Rufus,” said Maggie gently. “Alice married an
Australian. Not long after we were graduated, her daddy gave her a trip
around the world. Do you know,” Maggie squinted thoughtfully, “Alice may
have gone into orbit. She seems to have been going around the world ever
since.”

“Great old gal, Alice,” said Duncan comfortably.

“So what’s-her-name, the daughter . . .” Rufus was poor at names.

“Jaylia,” Maggie prompted.

“Isn’t she the one who married the Playboy Prince, what’s-his-name?”

“Aljedi was his nickname,” the Judge prompted.

“A prince of what?” said Lurlene. Tamsen opened her mouth to tell her
but Rufus kept right on, Lurlene was just too far behind.

“Wait a minute,” Rufus said, “I remember now. He was the Playboy Prince
who burned himself up in a racing car crash. Right?”

“Yes, he did,” said Maggie gravely.

“Kind of thoughtless, wasn’t that?” said Rufus. He smacked his lips
together.

“Of whom?” said the Judge politely.

“Of what’s-his-name, the Playboy Prince.” Rufus made a grand gesture and
Tamsen had to duck it slightly. “This boy’s father. I mean, here is a
chap supposed to get to be the king of this piddling little country.
Shouldn’t he have thought of that before he goes in for one of the most
dangerous sports in the world? Especially when all he’s got to leave
behind him is the one child, didn’t you say, Maggie?”

“Just the one,” said Maggie quietly.

“And _he’s_ not quite right, at that,” said Rufus sharply.

Tamsen noticed that Lurlene was watching her own husband with a certain
resentful sullenness, as if he had begun to speak in a foreign tongue,
and she was not only lost but spited.

“No, no,” Rufus went on, as if the silence around the table had disputed
him, “there is such a thing as responsibility to the people. Why did
this Playboy Prince have to see how fast he could drive a car? Pretty
childish. Oil money, they’ve got, haven’t they? But could he afford
that?”

Rufus was sounding painfully righteous, but Tamsen said in her soft
voice, “I certainly think you have a point, Rufus.”

The Judge said, in an offhand way, “I believe the King had other sons.”

“One killed in a plane,” said Maggie, “and one in battle, and one who
just seems to have died. But Aljedi was the favorite of the people and
now they worship Saiph, so Alice says. Oh there _is_ another heir, a
nephew, you see.”

“Ah, lots of characters in that country who wouldn’t mind being King,
either,” said Duncan easily. “Don’t worry about it, Rufus.”

Maggie rang her little bell.

“Yes,” said Rufus loudly, “but wouldn’t you think this particular idiot
prince ought to have watched himself?” He turned his gaze on Tamsen
suddenly. “What do you say, Chief?”

“I don’t know,” she said feebly.

“There may be,” cut in Maggie, “a great many things we don’t know. But
we do seem to know that Alice Foster’s grandson (and the King’s, too, of
course)”—Maggie dismissed kings as mere in-laws—“cannot live very long
unless an operation can help him.”

“Well, that’s too bad, naturally,” said Rufus.

The Judge had switched Phillida to the subject of her pet projects for
helping unfortunate children, when Rufus burst out again.

“But if that’s so,” he said, as if no one had spoken since his own last
sentence, “it looks to me as if Mitch has got a little pressure. What if
Mitch says to the King, what’s-his-name, ‘See here, I am an American and
I’m not going to operate on your grandson until you let those Americans
out of your jail.’ How about that?” Rufus was looking crafty. He
expected praise.

“How about that?” said his brother Mitch mildly.

“Well, the way their minds work . . .”

“The trouble is, Rufus, old boy,” said Duncan, “I spent a whole week
there, a year ago, and even I, child-prodigy that I am, haven’t the
slightest idea how their minds work.”

“I was there a whole day, a week ago,” Mitch said, “and I haven’t,
either.”

“But you couldn’t,” gasped Tamsen belatedly, “use a little boy’s life
. . .” For pressure, her thought continued, or for blackmail!

“Kinda mess up the image of the All-American compassionate heart.
Wouldn’t it, just?” drawled Duncan, sending her his smile.

“Oh, say,” said Lurlene, who by now had caught on to some of this, “you
got to have reverence for life. I mean, don’t you? Especially of a
little child.”

And now Rufus was staring at his wife.

“Sure you do, Lurlene.” Duncan was the quickest and he broke the
somewhat wincing silence. “Mitch is in that business, so don’t you
worry.” Then he called the table’s length, “Hey, Maggie, are you going
to have to dedicate this dump they are naming after you?”

“Alas,” said Maggie, becoming tragically weary of her worldly burdens,
“since I am still alive, I suppose I must.”

“Oh go on,” said Phillida. “You’ll love every minute—”

“Of course,” said Maggie in the same tragic tones, “and so will my
audience.”

Her children laughed at her, as (Tamsen realized) they had been intended
to do.


                                   2

Tamsen, savoring the evening behind them, was quiet for the first part
of their long ride home. Duncan Tyler didn’t mind, having other things
to think about. He was startled when she said, suddenly, “What does your
brother Rufus feel?”

“Feel? Oh, you mean because he didn’t have his pretty wreath to lay on
the family altar?” Duncan had expected this to come up, sooner or later.
“Don’t worry, honey. He’s used to that.”

“Is he? Really?”

Duncan knew the shades of her soft voice. He began to declaim, being
free to do so with his bride of six months, and enjoying the exercise of
the privilege. “Rufus,” he said, “was born what you might call one of
the untalented of this world. Nice fellow, but . . . well . . . not
bright. The folks had to squeak him through the easiest college courses
known to man, and it took persistence, believe me. On their part, that
is. Well, of course, he couldn’t qualify for medical. Dad did wangle him
into law school, where he washed out almost immediately. In fact, I
think it _was_ immediately. As for science, since I doubt he realizes
firmly that two and two will usually make four—”

“Oh, Duncan!”

“No, no,” he said, wondering if she could have been hearing meanness in
what he thought of as his humorous vein. “Honey, an IQ is an IQ, rough
measure though that may be. Everybody knows it’s not his fault.”

“But if it’s not his fault . . .”

“Then nobody blames him,” Duncan finished for her.

They were trundling through the western section of the city. Duncan was
thinking it was hard for Tamsen to understand the family attitude. He
must, he supposed, teach her.

“What _has_ he done?” she asked in another moment.

“Well, Rufus thought he’d start at the bottom in industry and work up.
Turned out it takes some yeasty kind of thing to rise, and he didn’t
have it. So he dropped that and thought he’d be a salesman and make a
wad, which is respectable, you know. But there seemed to be some kind of
self-starting energy involved there that he doesn’t have, either. They
lived with, or on, Lurlene’s mother for years.”

“He just keeps on failing?” Tamsen said, in mourning tones.

“Well, no. I think he’s just stopped trying,” said Duncan cheerfully.
“After all, why should _he_ pursue that will-o’-the-wisp, security, when
he’s got about as much of it as humans get. He’s got the family. He’s
got some comfortable friends of his own, I presume. And of course, he’s
got Lurlene, and he _is_ devoted to her. Well, she never has, and still
doesn’t, demand too much intellectual brilliance, would you say? So
Rufus may be a whole lot happier than any of us miserable strivers.”

“I don’t think so,” Tamsen said.

“My love, my little bleeding heart,” said Duncan, “mind, when you
empathize, that you allow for the fact that the other fellow isn’t just
like you.”

“But he has to feel accepted,” she said stubbornly.

“As what and by whom?” said Duncan, who had known that he must come
bluntly to this, sooner or later. “Must he be accepted as what he isn’t,
by people pretending to be what they are not? Which is to say, as
uninformed and unintelligent as he?”

“Oh, Duncan, that’s cruel,” she cried, bending forward in pain. “I think
that’s cruel!”

“We do, too,” he said, deliberately misunderstanding her.

They went along silently for a while.

“Wait a minute. _You_ didn’t get fooled, did you?” Duncan asked her,
suddenly.

“What?”

“You do realize, for instance, that Maggie knows she couldn’t make it in
the modern theatre? That the Judge is not licking his chops over this
‘honor’? He gets asked to do what he still can do, but he is tired. As
for Mitch, he hasn’t even scratched the surface of what he intends to
accomplish before he’s through. And Phillida gave up her own career,
years ago, to be a pretty darned good wife and mother. If she has energy
left over and does these charity things, it’s not _her_ name she wants
in bronze. And look at me, the bright young educator. Believe me, I am
one who knows better than most how terrifyingly ignorant I really am.
And I guess you don’t consider yourself on top of the world of art, eh?”

“It bothers me to pieces,” said Tamsen promptly, “that the one they
chose to hang is not the one I like the best.”

“All right,” Duncan chuckled. “Granted, Rufus seems to have fallen into
fast company. Also granted, it did seem on the sore-thumbish side
tonight. But, as the Chinese used to say, ‘No blame.’ And we were not
beating him down, for the fun of it. He’s one of us.”

They began the descent into the canyon, where they lived in a
brown-shingled house of mad design that delighted them both for its
charming unorthodoxy. Duncan parked the car where it must stand, beside
Tamsen’s Volkswagen, because there was no garage. He went around and
took her out, into his arms.

“Do you and I,” he said, into her sweet-scented hair, “make ourselves
miserable because Mitch, our brother, has _his_ marvelous skill to save
that little foreign prince? Ah, no! Rejoice! Rejoice!”

“I do,” Tamsen said into his shoulder. “I do.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Dr. Mitchel Tyler was a fast driver; he liked the freeways. Phillida
said, as they sped the long way, in order to get home sooner, “Lurlene!
Lurlene! How she does get herself up!” Phillida had begun life as a
dress designer and now shuddered. “Has science discovered whether good
taste is hereditary or environmental?”

“What Foundation has cared enough?” said her husband. “I don’t know what
the dickens Rufus is doing these days. Not making any money, I’d
imagine.”

“It doesn’t take money,” said Phillida, “to eschew orange roses on
chiffon, _plus_ rhinestones, for a Sunday night on the terrace.”

The Doctor pursued his own thoughts. “I tried to find old Rufus
something to do, but if he won’t sink in his teeth or persevere . . .”

“No room in my business, either,” she agreed. “Even a do-gooder has to
be good at it.” She, too, had once tried to find Rufus a job.

“Oh, he’ll never be a charity case. The family sees to that.”

“Maybe he’s been overprivileged.”

“Oh, come on.” There was no such thing, in the Doctor’s opinion.

“Of course, he early made his bed by marrying Lurlene when he was what
. . . twenty?”

“No accounting for tastes.” The Doctor grinned. “That’s not been
researched.”

“It wasn’t shotgun, either,” mused Phillida, without malice. “Or where’s
the evidence?” (Rufus and Lurlene had no children.)

“Oh, Rufus is all right, I suppose.” The Doctor turned his head. “When
shall we go ahead and have our fourth, Phillida?”

“Whenever you have time, dear,” said his wife cheerfully.

They swooped down into the underground garage and left the car, and rode
in a deep and comfortable silence up to their very modern and spacious
apartment in one of the newest high-rise buildings in the City of Los
Angeles.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Is Rufus all right, William?” asked Maggie suddenly.

The Judge regarded her fondly, where she sat in negligee, cozily near,
in the corner of his own huge bedroom where it was their habit to share
a nightcap. “I should think so, Maggie darling. He didn’t mention
money.”

“But then, I suppose in all the excitement we forgot to ask if he needed
any.” Maggie sighed and then said the opposite of what she was thinking.
“What a perfect triumph of a Tyler evening.”

He answered her thoughts. “Not everybody needs a career, Maggie darling.
Nor would relish the bother of it.”

“I wish he could find at least a hobby that . . . would engross him, you
know?”

“Not the sort of thing that can be found _for_ him.”

“But oh, I wish I could have told them . . .”

The Judge, who was used to skipping along beside her, waited patiently
to know where her thoughts had gone this time.

“I didn’t much like hearing poor young Aljedi so unhappily
misunderstood.”

The Judge made the jump. “The Playboy Prince? Condemned under that
cliché? It was a state secret, Maggie darling, and not ours to tell.”
The Judge thought that Rufus was not to blame, this time. Some secrets
made for misunderstanding.

“Not even our state,” Maggie agreed. “William, do you suppose he
flirted, poor afflicted fellow, with that flaming death because he knew
he hadn’t long to live in any case?”

“I see that you suppose so,” said the Judge, amused at Maggie’s way of
stating her answer as if it were the question. “Perhaps it was his hobby
to risk a life that wasn’t going anywhere.”

“I would, too,” she said darkly.

“Same defect the little boy has, wasn’t it? Late diagnosis, and no known
cure. I’d say that Mitch thinks there is a chance for the lad, in these
latter days.”

“It’s if they can wiggle things around so that it can be ‘politically
wise’ to send him to America and an American. Of all the idiocy!”
Maggie’s voice condemned politics. “Never mind,” she said, as if it had
been the Judge who had mentioned politics. “Alice Foster is a very
strong-minded character.”

“I had heard that the King of Alalaf was an Absolute Monarch,” he teased
her.

“Oh, there’s always some woman modifying all that,” said Maggie airily.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The house was one-story and, although newly painted, old-fashioned. It
sat on an unhandy triangle of land, too near a commercial street. The
most desirable thing about it was its postal address. It lay on the very
fringe of Beverly Hills. Lurlene had been wild to have it, a year and a
half ago.

Rufus let her out at the front. She used her key and put up the light in
what she still thought of as the “front room.” She stepped out of her
shoes at once and padded through to open the back door for him. Then she
took a can of beer out of the refrigerator, went back to the front room
and sat down rather heavily in her upholstered rocking chair.

The front room was furnished well enough. She kept it scrupulously
clean. None of the furniture was shabby. She usually felt the effect to
be fine. But it’s another world, she thought, remembering the terrace
scene. Yah, if you have money . . .

She had her bra unhooked and was sitting there, with her stout legs
apart, when Rufus came through, bearing a can of beer of his own. He sat
down in his accustomed place, angled away from the cold fireplace toward
the television set.

“Um, boy,” said Lurlene, weary of trying to watch her speech all
evening, “that Tamsen sure thinks she’s pretty cute. I see she had her
hair up, at least. How come a grown woman goes around most of the time
with her hair hanging down her back?”

He didn’t speak, but Lurlene somehow knew it was perfectly safe,
tonight, to attack Tamsen. “What kind of stuff does she get ‘hung’?
Those fried-egg-looking messes, I suppose. I mean, who needs them? And
listen,” she continued, “how come Phillida has to go around getting
money out of other people? Why don’t she just give out some of her own?
I guess your brother makes plenty, right?”

Sometimes, when she got off like this on the subject of his family, he’d
start laughing and tell her to just relax. Sometimes, he’d look a little
bit sad and tell her she didn’t know them like he did. Tonight he didn’t
say anything.

“They sure are some bunch of high-flyers,” she muttered. “Pretty fancy.”

Rufus got up and turned on the TV. It was a talk program. The M.C. was
wrangling with some inarticulate volunteer, and cruelly, for
entertainment values, preventing the poor soul from making his point.

Lurlene didn’t bother to try to follow the argument. She surmised, with
some shrewdness, that Rufus didn’t want to talk, and TV gave the sense
of life and noise that relieved you of that responsibility whether you
paid attention to the tube or not.

Lurlene herself couldn’t help feeling low, or like gypped, or something.
Every time they went to one of these family deals at Maggie’s, Maggie
always put on all that dog. Lurlene always went to a lot of trouble to
gussy herself up, and usually left her house feeling some
self-confidence. And then ended up by coming home with this lousy
feeling that she had been off-base again.

What do I do? She was brooding, now. Didn’t do one damn thing I
shouldn’t have. _I_ was well-dressed. _I_ was polite.

The man on TV was shouting, “And the criminal, he not only gets off, but
_he’s_ the one who gets his name in the papers.”

“What is your point, sir?” snapped the M.C. “If you’ve got a point,
kindly come to it, unless it’s on the top of your head.”

“I’m only saying—”

“You’re not saying anything, pardon me. Next questioner, please.”

“They talk so damn fast,” said Lurlene aloud. “Tamsen was right about
that. You sure can’t catch on to what the hell they’re talking about.
And _I_ don’t think that’s very polite.”

“Tamsen,” said Rufus, in a funny way.

On the screen, the next questioner had begun to drone, entangling
himself in so many clauses that all hope of a sentence was soon gone.

Lurlene said, gloomily, “Even _her_ name’s getting in the papers, I
suppose. Um, boy, like I say . . . It don’t mean that much,” she added
sourly. “So what is it, to get famous or something? So long as you lead
a decent life and raise up some decent . . .” She stopped.

“Who needs fame?” Rufus rolled his eyes.

“What I mean!” Lurlene settled down to souring the grapes, pleased to
think that he was with her. “You want your name in the papers, what the
heck, all you got to do is go ahead, be a criminal, like the man just
said.”

“Steal a million dollars?” Rufus said, with a saucy quirk of his lips.
“Blow off the Statue of Liberty’s head?” He seemed to be pleased and
relaxed by this fancy.

“Hey!” Lurlene admired his imagination. “Or you take a big gangster,”
she continued.

“Sell top secrets to the enemy?”

“Or even you get in death row,” said Lurlene cheerily, “like who was
this killer? In the headlines for twelve years, already? Some world.”
She sighed luxuriously over the sins of everybody else. “No place to
raise a kid. I’m telling you. I’m just as glad.”

Rufus got up and went into the bedroom. Lurlene pricked up her ears. In
a moment, she heard the water running in the bathroom and she sagged.

But when he came back and threw himself down into his chair, she
recognized a certain sulky sly look.

“Say, uh . . .” she began, “when you seen the doctor Friday, did _he_
think it was so smart to keep on taking that stuff?”

“He doesn’t think I’m smart,” said Rufus. “He doesn’t think I’m stupid.”
He spoke with a strange cheer.

Lurlene began to think it was time to butter him up a little. “Well, how
can I blame you?” She sighed. “Tonight was pretty hard to take. Pretty
tough.”

“What was?” He was already going off into that limp state? Lurlene
didn’t like it too much and that was the truth.

“Oh, I mean the whole pack of them, boasting how smart _they_ were. And
not one of them willing to give you any ‘in’ on their rackets. Their own
brother. They could give you a break, once in a while.” She often
complained for him. Sometimes, he listened.

This time he said, “No, no, I’m lucky.”

“Huh?”

“Just to belong. Tamsen said so.”

Lurlene snorted. “Maybe Tamsen will give you lessons, how to mess around
with some gobs of paint. So you can be immortal, too.”

“Get my name into the pages of history?” he said, dreamily.

Sometimes he lost her. Sometimes, he took on a voice just like the rest
of them, and Lurlene got lost.

“Yah,” she said. “Well,” she got up, “you coming to bed?”

“No, no,” said Rufus. “I’m going to sit here and contemplate immortal
fame.”

“Yah,” she cried, suddenly furious with him. “You do that, why don’t
you?” Lurlene walked toward their bedroom on her aching feet. “Um, boy,”
she said viciously, “I thought I was smart, glomming on to a Tyler. But
I sure got the lemon in the basket.”


                                   3

“Maggie, dear,” said Maggie, on Wednesday morning.

She was reading her mail, aloud, as usual. The Judge always enjoyed
hearing Maggie take on the personality of the writer. It tickled him,
now, when her voice became slightly nasal and began to tumble over
itself with dips and swoops of energy. He didn’t have to be told that
the letter was from Alice Foster.

“I’m about to tip you off to all the trouble you have let yourself in
for. Our small package is being shipped, at last. Hooray!”

“Hooray!” piped Maggie on her own, for punctuation.

(The Judge put in no “hooray” but began a quiet bracing toward the
immediate future.)

“It must come undercover,” she continued to read. “Please ask William
whether he knows ways-and-means to keep eager snoopers from noticing
anything odd at your end? At this end, it is just going to be easier,
all around, if nothing is known about what’s going on until it _has_
gone on and is successfully over.”

(The Judge let notions of ways-and-means to keep the American press from
noticing the arrival of a small foreign prince, and retinue, ripple
across his mind.)

“It may be awkward,” said Alice Foster in her letter. “We have had
‘unrest’ in Alalaf, you realize. These are fierce people. With less
luck, more blood might have been shed in the University riots recently.
Just to give you some idea of the prevailing sentiments, you, my dear
Maggie, by virtue of your citizenship alone, are not only an evil-minded
infidel, but a fiendishly clever barbarian, with all modern improvements
at your nasty fingertips. Your folks are quite capable of having used a
racing course as a murder weapon. Oh, yes!”

“Oh, no!” said Maggie, as Maggie.

“Prejudice is prejudice,” murmured the Judge, “whether pro or con, to or
fro.” (This affair was going to be awkward, all right, he thought, as
had been said before.)

“So anxiety will be high, in high places,” Maggie read, “without added
tension of a populace in an uproar. So it may be impossible, but it is
important, so please don’t, if you can help it, let the newsmen in on
this.”

(If we can help it, thought the Judge soberly.)

“The mother has already written the Doctor and they will set the date.
The plan is to get our party off so quietly that it won’t be known, in
the marketplace, that they have gone away at all. They will transfer to
a commercial flight, traveling tourist. We hope that will make it
possible for them to arrive without any bugles blowing there, either.

“I’ll list for you who is coming. Six, in all. Mother and child, who
will try to be inconspicuous. Inga, who looks after him, you know, is of
Scandinavian descent and might as well have come from South Dakota.
She’s no problem and she’ll be in the hospital with the patient. But
there will be, alas, three of these Alalafian hawk-profiles along, as
Western garb cannot disguise. At least two of them will be flashing
their dark eyes suspiciously at all times. J’s maid (her name is Zora)
will come to you with J, and be useful, I hope. But the pair of young
men, faithful watchdogs who were insisted upon by you-know-who, propose,
I fear, to sleep at their master’s feet, and heaven knows how they are
to be coped with. The best I could do was to see that the chosen two
understand and speak English.

“I beg of you, please try? If the hospital has a suite of some kind,
that might be part of the answer. Perhaps William knows what else might
be done, or whom to tell.

“Now, if it does get out, and I know it may, the difficulty will be
. . . you know . . . difficult.

“But if the worst should happen, _difficulty_ isn’t the word. I think
you will have to know” . . . uncannily, Maggie’s voice gained speed and
agitation with the handwriting . . . “that certain jailbirds, here, will
find their ‘trial’ postponed until such time as the package comes home
as good or better than new. This is in the bargain. No, I don’t mean
that. It is related.

“All right, I’ll lay it on the line. I am afraid that, if the worst
should happen . . . and oh, Maggie, pray it won’t! . . . then these
streets will be running with ravening wolves, and tidbits of the proper
flavor may have to be thrown.

(The Judge interpreted, with a shock. She meant the twenty-eight
poor-but-honest American professors!)

“I say may have to be. I say I am afraid. I may have become, unbeknownst
to myself, a foolish old woman. But passions in the blood of the people,
that some cool hand or other has been using for a handle, may get _out_
of hand. As William, I think, would agree.

“Well, fear is fear, and no point living by that, do you think? What I
believe in, of course, is the happy ending. Or I wouldn’t be having
anything to do with the plot, now would I?

“I am not coming. You understand. I stay where I am, in my apartment in
the city, which, I daresay, has modern improvements, as for instance
bugging. But I have my methods. So I’ll spider it up and keep an eye on,
from here. While there.

“Oh, Maggie, I know how much this puts on you and yours. I wish it
needn’t. I wish it were simpler. All devious and calculating and
undercover as it has to try to be, it is still the shortest distance to
our dearest hope. May he live! Toward which hope I trust your devotion,
and thank God for it. As ever, your devoted, Alice.”

Maggie read the last lines sharply and let the paper fall. She was not
weeping, but the Judge patted her anyway. (It was a habit he had. He
enjoyed it, and Maggie never seemed to mind.)

“Secrecy is very desirable,” he said soothingly. “We can manage, or have
a good try, eh? Let me see. No entertaining, or acquiring debt by being
entertained, while Jaylia is with us. Humph. As soon as we know the day,
I think I must come down with some ailment that keeps me close indoors,
at home. You, of course, will refuse to leave my side.”

“Why, I wouldn’t think of it!” she said at once. “I’ll cancel
_everything_. People will simply have to understand.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll make a little list.”

“Oh?”

“Alice is right about that. Sometimes the best way to keep a secret is
to tell the right people, at the right time, all about it.”

“You take care of that, then,” said Maggie, becoming the executive.
“Duncan must meet them at the plane, I think. Jaylia knows him, and he
_is_ so civilian.”

“Yes.”

“Jaylia and her maid will have the west wing. We can trust Sam and
Hilde, of course.”

“I think so,” said the Judge, with his mind full of forebodings.

“If there was no such thing as trustworthy devotion in this ridiculous
world,” burst Maggie, speaking to his thoughts, “it couldn’t operate _at
all_!”

“No, of course it couldn’t, Maggie darling,” he agreed. “Still, since it
does, in a fashion, there must be such a thing.” On all sides, alas, he
was thinking.

Maggie was often a mind-reader. “O.K. We’ll gamble there is enough, on
our side.”

The Judge had seen through the ever-changing masks to the hard-core
Maggie before. “Yes, sir-ma’am,” he said.

So Maggie became, perversely, as totally female as could be, putting
everything upside down and backwards. “It will be suitable,” she
decreed, “for you to have the gout, just like some old millionaire in a
comic strip. Nobody will dare come near us, because you shall be so mean
and cross and moody, and uncooperative, _and_ stupid _and_ selfish
. . .”

The Judge blushed under these crude compliments, but there was no
denying that he did enjoy them.

When he left her, finally, counting his blessings on one hand and his
worries on the other, he went into his study, ticking off on his toes a
name or two that, from the top, might cut publicity close to the root if
that danger arose.

He did not care for Alice Foster’s notion that there were hostages. Or
rather, morsels kept on hand to appease. In the event a doctor lost a
patient? (As if he willingly would!) Yet sillier things than this had
happened in the world.

Say the boy died in the United States of America, as had his father
before him. Say the people of Alalaf went into riot, blaming the King
for having put their darling secretly into the power of the dog, which
is to say, the hands of the evil and untrustworthy barbarian infidels.
Say the King tossed them twenty-eight American “spies.”

Would Ibn-Ibrahim-Abd-er-Rahman, the Servant of the Merciful One
(otherwise known as Al Asad) do such a thing?

The Judge wondered why, since the possibility of this surgery had
appeared when Duncan was in Alalaf a year ago, the old King had not in
the meantime influenced his people toward a softer attitude, just in
case. But who could know why not? Perhaps he could not.

Al Asad, fierce in independence, played on his small scale the east
against the west, and on this balance kept his tiny state aloof from the
pressures toward and from the U. A. R., as well. Which wasn’t easy. Nor
could it possibly last forever.

The Judge realized that he did not and could not know how that mind
worked. Supposing that the King did do such a thing? Say he fed the
professors to the wolves. Or, supposing his people took, or were allowed
to take (and who could ever say which?), those prisoners by force? As in
lynch? In either case, must not this country do somewhat more than
frown?

The Judge winced. He knew very well that no sequence of events was
totally predictable, but he thought it not a bad idea to nip the
possibility of this particular sequence as early as possible. But not,
he mused sadly, quite at the root. Mitch could not possibly refuse to
try to patch that poor little heart, if non-political factors gave him
hope of success. No, not any more than he could possibly will to fail.

None of us will do either, he said to himself.

Meanwhile, the Judge, lest Maggie read his mind one day, kept himself
from verbalizing his strong suspicion that Alice Foster herself was (or
believed that she was) to be held hostage in a foreign capital.


                                   4

On the following Tuesday, a little after noon, Lurlene finally found the
house number, parked her car, inspected her makeup in the rearview
mirror, drew on her gloves virtuously, and then found herself mincing
across the short dooryard on redwood rounds, inspecting everything she
saw with a sharp assessing eye. For heaven’s sakes! The house was just
an old shack covered with rusty-looking brown shingles, and it didn’t
have any property, either, practically jammed in down here at the bottom
of the canyon, with a steep hill behind it.

She couldn’t find the button for the bell, but before she could make up
her mind to knock, which might not be ladylike, Tamsen opened the door
and said, “Oh, Lurlene! Hello. Come in. It’s _so_ hot, isn’t it?”

Lurlene had to admit the dark interior seemed a little cooler than the
car. Sure _was_ a hot day—too hot to drive in traffic while encased in
a new girdle, to have on nylons and heels, and a synthetic silk dress,
when everybody knows cotton is cooler. She had sacrificed. But here
stood Tamsen, in a plain white cotton shift, her bare feet in sandals,
and wearing her hair hanging down her back in that childish way. Lurlene
thought _she_ looked as if she were just off to the beach.

Tamsen led her out of whatever room it was (Lurlene had a shocking
impression that from the front door she had put her foot into the
kitchen!) into the big front room, and Lurlene arched her neck and
peered, in the somewhat better light, for the sight of the other guests.
There seemed to be none.

“Sit down, and let me bring you something cool to drink. And take off
those hot gloves, won’t you?”

Lurlene began to take off her gloves, already feeling off-base. She had
thought she had been invited to a luncheon. But it wasn’t going to be a
luncheon, obviously. The room wasn’t even neat. It was big, all right,
practically the whole wing, and it was shaped like an L, and it had a
step up, at the L’s right angle, and the walls, wherever there was no
window, were completely lined with bookshelves and the books were just
stuffed in, any old which way. Wait a minute—looked like a little bitty
piano, up there in the top part of the L.

Lurlene drew in her neck as Tamsen came back with a tall glass. “You
know,” said the hostess, “if Maggie and the Judge are going away, even
if only for a while, the rest of us are going to have to close ranks,
aren’t we?”

Lurlene said she thought so, too, with no very clear idea of what was
meant. The drink had ice in it, anyhow.

“And you haven’t even been here,” said Tamsen. “But we only found it
three months ago, and I don’t know why, we just never seem to entertain
much. I haven’t got what it takes to put on a dinner, I’m afraid. Isn’t
this a crazy house?”

Lurlene thought it certainly was, but she said nothing of the kind, of
course. Tamsen explained how the entrance room _was_ the kitchen, and
how the bath opened off the kitchen, which was pretty weird, and the
bedroom may have once been a garage. “That’s just about all there is,”
Tamsen explained, “except for my shed, out back. We just love it,
though. I’ll hate to leave.”

Then she went on to tell all about the fancy modern house that was being
built for them on the new campus. Lurlene listened to the count of
bathrooms, the details of the modern kitchen which, Tamsen said with a
phony shudder, was going to be like the dashboard of a jet plane.

“I like the creative part of housekeeping,” Tamsen said, “but I don’t
always like the routine.”

Lurlene, who didn’t think she was making any sense, took care to be
cooingly agreeable to everything.

Then Tamsen took her outside, through the large square dim kitchen, to a
tiny bit of pavement behind the house, which was roofed with a skeleton
of timbers over which vines were tumbling. Lurlene sat down gingerly on
the redwood-slatted chair and tried to keep her mind off the possibility
of falling bugs. The backyard was no wider than the house, but it did go
back a little way, until the steep hill stopped it. Lurlene thought it
was crazy. Shut in, and (although they were so near the ocean), no
breeze, and just no view at all.

Tamsen brought out plates of salady stuff and iced tea. They discussed
food. They deplored the weather again. The conversation limped along.
Inevitably, they came to Maggie.

Maggie was wonderful. Maggie had a beautiful home. It was hot over
there, but Maggie had air conditioning. And servants. Perhaps that was
why, Tamsen said, the younger Tylers didn’t seem to get together
anywhere else. “Maggie makes it so comfortable for us all.”

“Well, I suppose we get together _this_ Sunday?” said Lurlene. “Or is it
the week after. Did you hear yet?” It was always Sunday because of
Mitch, who had a better chance of getting there on Sundays.

Tamsen said, after a funny little hesitation, “I think Maggie’s probably
going to skip it for a while. She’s having house guests, I believe.”

“Is that so?” Lurlene didn’t ask who. She thought, Well, _I_ don’t mind
skipping it, believe me.

But Tamsen stood up kind of suddenly. “Would you like to see where I
work, Lurlene?”

“Huh?” Lurlene was startled. It hadn’t occurred to her that Tamsen
_worked_.

“The shed where I do the painting?”

“Oh. Oh, I sure would.” Lurlene struggled out of her chair and followed
Tamsen, who seemed to gambol lightly as she led the way—like some
little kid, thought Lurlene, whose heels were sinking disagreeably into
moist earth.

“I’m afraid it’s awfully warm in here this time of day in summer,” said
Tamsen apologetically, “but it’s perfect in the early morning.”

Lurlene thought it was perfect _shed_, all right. Just the bare boards,
inside. Stuffy, too, and stinking of painty smells. Lurlene tried to
manage her nostrils politely. There was an easel, and shelves full of
cans and bottles and Lurlene didn’t know what-all. All kinds of
pictures, some hanging on the walls just on regular old nails. Others
standing on the floor, and some turned so that all you saw was the back
of them. Lurlene was hard-put-to-it to be admiringly impressed, but she
tried.

“I think,” said Tamsen in her soft voice, and now she seemed to have
gone away somewhere, standing there, looking around at what she called
her “work,” “I want you and Rufus to have one of my things. If you would
like that. I gave one to Phillida, you know. And Maggie, of course.”

“That’s very nice,” said Lurlene, not unpleased, and her eyes began to
travel rapidly, assessing what she saw with new interest. “I sure like
that one,” she said, pointing impulsively. The one she said she liked
was hanging on the wall. In fact, it was the only one Lurlene could
plainly see.

“Oh, not that one,” said Tamsen quickly. “Oh, I’m sorry, but that one is
going to a gallery.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, you see, about six of them are going to a gallery, and they’ll be
for sale, you know.”

Yah! thought Lurlene. _I_ don’t get to have one that might sell and make
her a little money, eh?

“Well,” she said helplessly, “I don’t care. I mean, whatever you say.”

“Why don’t I paint one, just for you?” said Tamsen thoughtfully.
“Something you would _really_ like?”

“Well, say,” said Lurlene, tottering on her high heels and hoping they
could get out of here pretty soon, “I kinda like scenery, you know?”

“Landscapes?” Tamsen was being very attentive.

“Well, like some fields, and oh . . . like a little farmhouse, and some
of those . . . you know . . . little round trees?”

“You mean a primitive,” said Tamsen alertly.

“No, no,” said Lurlene. “I mean like Grandma Moses. I think they’re
cute.”

“I see,” said Tamsen gravely. “Well, I can try. Shall we go back to the
house? I’m afraid it’s too hot and close in here.”

Lurlene’s mind was not quite on what she was saying as she took a good
breath of the open air. “Wow, it sure smells in there.” Then she spoke
her real thought. “Listen, you never been to my place, either. Maybe you
should know that my fr . . . my living room is done in all different
pinks.”

“I see,” said Tamsen in a moment. “Then, would you like snow?”

“Snow!”

“I mean for your picture? And the sky a winter gray? Do you think white
and gray would look well in your room?” Tamsen was speaking very
politely, but Lurlene didn’t like it for some reason.

“That would be just perfect,” she gushed. (I can be a phony, too, she
thought.) “Just wonderful of you to go to the trouble.”

“I would like to please you,” Tamsen said softly.

Lurlene didn’t know what to make of that, so she began to talk about the
long hot ride home, and how she had better get on her horse.

As they went back through the house Tamsen seemed to Lurlene to be
feeling let-down, or low, or something. I guess she tries, thought
Lurlene, in sudden charity. She does the best she can, I suppose.

Lurlene thought of something else. “Oh, say, I wanted to ask you,
Tamsen—”

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering. I mean, it’s probably a big favor. But would you
mind giving Rufus some lessons?”

“Some . . . what?” Tamsen’s voice was feeble.

“I mean, show him how to paint pictures,” said Lurlene.

“I couldn’t!” said Tamsen in a low shocked voice.

“Oh?” Lurlene couldn’t help bristling.

“No, no,” said Tamsen. “I can’t teach. But I’ll tell you what I can do.
Let me give you my teacher’s name. He’s awfully good. Of course, he
doesn’t take on everybody. But Rufus could go talk to him, and I’m sure
he’d get some excellent advice.”

“Oh? Well, thanks.” Lurlene felt stiff as a board. She had been only
half-serious in her request, which Rufus had not commissioned her to
make, but now all kinds of suspicions raced in her mind. Tamsen probably
didn’t want anybody else in on her racket. Or Tamsen didn’t want to be
alone with a man. And if so, why not?

“Is Rufus really interested?” said Tamsen, sounding warmer.

Lurlene took the slip of paper. “Well, he could be. I don’t think he’s
feeling so hot these days.”

This was true. For some reason Lurlene felt she was wise to say so.

“I’m sorry,” said Tamsen. “Is he worried about anything?”

“No, no,” Lurlene said quickly, assuming that money was meant. “We
don’t”—she had read this many times—“care so much for material things.
If it was that,” she went on, “I could have got a job a long time ago. I
just happen to think that a woman ought to stay home and keep her house
clean, you know, and things put away?” She had not meant to show a claw;
she hadn’t been able to resist it.

But Tamsen smiled at her. “Of course,” she said.

“I guess I’m just what you’d call a homemaker,” said Lurlene piously.
“The thing is, if Rufus had something . . . to, you know, fool around
with . . .”

“Like painting?” said Tamsen sweetly.

“You couldn’t just kinda get him started?” Lurlene said, with hard eyes.

“No, I _couldn’t_,” said Tamsen earnestly. “Some people _can’t_ teach. I
don’t even know how _I_ do it. I . . . I’m busy, trying to learn.”

“Oh, well, I know you’re busy,” said Lurlene. “Thanks just the same and
thanks for a lovely, lovely luncheon.” Lurlene knew her manners.

She went back along the redwood rounds and, sure enough, the car was
about 180 degrees inside. She turned down all the windows and unbuttoned
the top of her dress and rolled it lower. And the hell with it, she
thought sulkily. Who cares how _I_ look, anyway?

When she had run the car into the garage, she came in at the back door,
kicking her shoes off petulantly the moment she was under the roof.

Rufus was in the kitchen. He had a piece of waxed paper spread on the
kitchen counter, and it was covered with funny-looking tan lumps.

“What in the heck are you doing?” exclaimed Lurlene. “What’s that?
_Fudge!_ For God’s sakes!” Rufus had never turned a hand in the kitchen
in his life.

“It’s inedible,” he said gloomily.

Lurlene was interested. She came closer and reached for one of the
lumps, but he actually slapped her hand away, although lightly. “It’s
impossible,” he said, and lifted the waxed paper and dumped the whole
mess into the sink.

“Hey,” said Lurlene, “how much sugar you throwing away, there? Look,
probably you didn’t stir it enough. Let me . . .”

But Rufus was washing his product down into the garbage disposal.
Lurlene licked her finger and put it on a leftover crumb, but he slapped
her hand again in the same light way.

“Listen, mister,” she said, sounding furious with him but feeling a
pleasant release of an anger she had carried all the way home because of
a lot of things, “how come you’re so free with them mitts? Nobody slaps
_me_ around.”

“You’re the only one in the world who would put it in your mouth,” he
said in a funny way, “and you don’t count.”

“I certainly appreciate the compliment,” said Lurlene, picking up her
shoes. She gave him his compliment for the day. “Hey, Tamsen don’t want
any part of you. She can’t be bothered to teach _you_ how to paint.”

“Who asked her?” he said dully.

“I asked her.”

“Why?” He rolled his eyes and Lurlene began to feel uneasy.

“Oh, I just thought I’d see what she’d say. Um, boy—what a jolly time
_I_ had! What a phony she is!”

“Why did you go?” he asked absently.

“Say, listen, I have to be nice to her, don’t I?” said Lurlene.

“That won’t put your name in the history books,” he said, dreamily.

Lurlene flounced into the bedroom to strip off her finery. Still on that
kick, was he? Say, listen, a joke was a joke, but Lurlene was sick of
it. Maybe he was looping, really looping, with those damn pills.

God knew she had tried. . . .

Lurlene powdered her hot face and began to look at it intently. She
thought, I’m not old. I could easy lose five or six pounds. Even ten.
She didn’t quite permit herself to realize that she was contemplating
widowhood.

He was in the front room when she emerged. Lurlene spotted the mess he’d
made on the coffee table with a sharp housekeeping eye. “_Now_ what did
you think you were doing?” she demanded. “What _was_ that? The alarm
clock?”

“I don’t understand how it works,” he said in that listless way.

“You sure fixed it.” She scowled at the mess of junk on the newspaper
and began to fold the paper up around all those parts and pieces. She
looked at him, where he was sitting dejectedly in his usual chair.
“Don’t tell me you were thinking about getting up and going to work, or
anything _rash_?” she said nastily. She carried the mess into the
kitchen to dispose of it. One thing about Lurlene, she kept house.

Something he had said was nagging at her, although she couldn’t remember
what it was now. She began to survey their fifteen years of married life
rather gloomily.

When Lurlene told the tale of Rufus’ career, it came out crystallized.
How they had gone back east, ten years ago, where Rufus had had this
wonderful offer. But the company had turned out to have a very poor
policy. So then they had gone to Lurlene’s own hometown, in Iowa, and
stayed five years, comforting her mother until that lady had died. But
in the end, of course, the place was just too small for a man like Rufus
Tyler. No opportunities. They had tried Tucson, but Lurlene couldn’t
stand the summers. So, for her sake, they had come back to Los Angeles,
oh—a year or more ago. Rufus was not really settled yet. But it was so
nice to be near his people.

She had almost come to believe this version herself—except for that
last statement. No, it was _not_ nice to be near his people.

Lurlene had never been to college. She had been a waitress in a
hamburger joint where the college kids used to come. She had gone after
Rufus Tyler because he was clean, well-dressed, rich, and not snooty.
And from a good family. Yah, yah, she thought.

Oh, he had fallen for her, all right. Moonlight and roses! But she had
put up with a lot that hadn’t been so darned rosy. Yes, she had. Now, if
Rufus was going to start being sloppy and messy around the house, that
was going to be just great, that was.

She took up the kitchen sponge and began to clean the counter
righteously. He hadn’t mopped up all the crumbs of his fudge. What did
he want with candy? Her forefinger hesitated over one of the crumbs, but
then she whisked them, every one, away into the sink and polished
vigorously.

She thought, If I’m going to start dieting, I got to start. Some grim
resolution was forming. It must be this. If I’d have had a kid, she
thought, a precious Tyler . . . um . . . boy . . . then I’d have been
somebody, I’ll bet. Nobody ever wants to know how _I_ feel.

For just one scary moment Lurlene realized that she didn’t want to know
how she felt, either. In another moment she had squeezed out a tear, and
this evidence of true suffering made her feel better.

                 *        *        *        *        *

When Duncan came home, on the late side, their big room was dusky and
Tamsen was curled up on the couch in a mood to match the sadness of the
light.

“Fiasco?” he said alertly, forcing himself to take account of her state.
He snapped on a lamp and sat down beside her. She swayed over into his
arms with a sigh.

“Pure frustration. Lurlene asked me to teach Rufus to paint. I said I
_couldn’t_. She thinks I _won’t_. But you know the difference between
teaching and doing.”

“Indeed. Indeed,” he soothed.

“If I had talked for three solid hours I could _not_ have got that into
her head,” said Tamsen vehemently.

“I believe you.” He was comforting her with voice and caress. “The
difference between can’t and won’t, eh? Now, a teacher looks the other
way.” He was lecturing to soothe her. “I should say that the greater
percentage of our so-called students is made up of those who
could-learn-but-won’t, and those who would-learn-but-can’t. So, it
follows that a whopping hunk of our valuable time is spent just trying
to tell the difference.”

“What do you do when you find out which is which?” she murmured, soaking
up comfort.

“We coax the one-who-won’t to want to—which is our art. When we are
sure of the ones-who-can’t, we throw them out—which is our duty.”

“Besides, then they’re not _your_ problems anymore.”

“Then, they are problems-at-large,” he said, “and this society has got
to find out what is to be done with them some day soon.” Having calmed
her with abstractions he now said, “Honey, chalk up one noble effort and
mark it failed.”

“So I just throw her out,” said Tamsen, “and that’s the moral of it?”

“With,” he said pompously, “the stipulation that the language is
immoderate, I’d say yes, I suppose you do. That is, you put Lurlene out
of the running as an intimate chum of yours.”

Tamsen sighed, and then she giggled. “Or _she_ throws _me_ out, when she
sees my Grandma-Tyler.”

But her tension was gone and Duncan, feeling his task accomplished,
interrupted. “They’re here,” he announced.

“Oh, I forgot!” she squirmed. “Did it go all right?”

“Slick as could be,” he told her, letting loose his own mood, which was
exultant. “I borrowed Dick Sadler’s station wagon to hold the whole pack
of them in one load.”

“Did the foreigners look awfully exotic?”

“Well, of course—not so much in an airport. But Alice Foster was right
about the dirty looks they were casting. Expecting Indians (American
variety) or at the very least, Al Capone. I . . . er . . . got a little
foxy. We fetched the luggage to the curb. Mounds of it, by the way. I
made Jaylia and the boy and his Swedish nurse stand in one group, and
the other three, the exotic ones, stand a little bit apart. When I came
by and scooped them all up in one car, pretty fast, nobody seemed to
notice anything odd.”

Duncan thought to himself, But it _was_ odd.

“And the little boy is in the hospital, _now_?”

“Sure is. I got to drive in to the ambulance entrance, and Mitch was
there and we were all whisked up in a back elevator. They’re in a suite,
all right. Very private. I think the hospital uses it for movie stars
who have had face lifts, or something equally top secret. Arrangements
seem fine. Saiph’s got one bedroom. Inga’s got the other. The two
characters who are supposed to be his bodyguards are going to have cots
in the sitting room—that is, if they intend to sleep at all.” Duncan
laughed in sheer excitement.

“But his mother isn’t going to stay there?” Tamsen marveled, slightly.

(No, no, thought Duncan, you don’t understand. You just don’t
understand.)

“No, no,” he said aloud. “I drove her and the maid to Maggie’s. Wait
till you see Zora. Chiffon bloomers.”

“Oh, Duncan, no!”

“Oh, she was _wearing_ a blue suit, but Zora’s got the aura.” He was in
high spirits. He didn’t know quite why.

Tamsen fell in with his mood and rejoiced. She thought it was wonderful
that something was being done, and being done through the Tylers, to
help the poor child.

But Duncan Tyler knew that, marvelous though this might be, and
conducive to rejoicing, it wasn’t the true source of his own
exhilaration.

“Hey, this cloak-and-dagger stuff works up the appetite,” he announced,
dumping her from his lap. “What’s to nibble on?”

“Steak. I’m starving, too. I served a very genteel lunch,” said Tamsen,
scampering before him into their crazy kitchen. “And I swear unto thee,
I don’t know why.”

“It was your tender heart, wishing to please.”

“No,” said Tamsen, “or yes, maybe. Or no, I don’t really think so.”

“How about searching your soul after supper?” he said cheerfully. “Hey,
Maggie wants to know will I bring you by, Thursday evening, to meet the
Princess?”

“Oh, I’d love to!”

“Phillida’s coming too. Maggie thinks she’ll be a great comfort. The
Doctor’s wife, you see, calm as cucumbers.”

“It’s ‘cool’ as,” said Tamsen, “and Phillida _is_. But what about . . .
?”

Nothing was said.

Tamsen unwrapped the steak.

“Maggie’s privilege,” Duncan said, “after all.”

“So it is,” she agreed, “but it seems too bad to leave them out, when
it’s not their fault.”

“Whose fault is it,” he said with a touch of impatience, “that they
wouldn’t be of the slightest interest, or use, to Jaylia? Nor she to
them, for that matter.”

“Why not she to them?”

“Because they would be forbidden to name-drop,” he said cruelly.

“Oh, Duncan—”

“Communication would be nil,” he said. “The Princess is simply another
order of human animal. And that’s not _her_ fault, either.”

Tamsen heard a note in his voice she did not understand at all, and it
frightened her a little.


                                   5

The big house in San Marino had two wings that bent inward, on the
street side. One entered at the far left of the central block, to a wide
hall which continued (under the stairs) all the way to the garden side
and glass doors there. To one’s left, visible through two archways, lay
the enormous living room, the entire ground floor of the west wing. To
one’s right lay the Judge’s study, a long narrow room in the central
block, on the street side. Behind this, toward the garden, there was a
room that Maggie called the lanai. It was both an informal sitting room
and the passage to the east wing, where lay the big dining room, the
kitchen beyond that, and the little breakfast room that overlooked the
east terrace and the swimming pool.

Upstairs, on the street side, as the house bowed in, there ran a long
passage the whole way. All the bedrooms looked out on the garden side
and were not subject to the intrusion of glances from passersby.
Maggie’s servant-couple, who inhabited an apartment over the garage,
were not in the house except when serving. The whole establishment was
kept to itself within boundaries of shrubbery so that, although Maggie’s
hospitality was famous, this place could be a quiet fortress, and very
private indeed.

They were gathered in the lanai, which Maggie considered appropriate in
the summertime, with its light gay furnishings and its windows standing
open to the peaceful lawns.

Tamsen was quiet in her corner, a looker and a listener. Meantime, she
was trying not to turn in her mind the knowledge that she had been
somewhat misdirected by her husband.

She had seen Zora, a young person with, indeed, the look of her people,
but Tamsen had sensed no chiffon-bloomer aura about _her_. She was
obviously devoted to her mistress and, by now, also devoted to Maggie,
who had probably arranged this without half trying. Zora came and went,
being of service in a happy way, and then vanished, and was not missed,
and that was that.

It was quite obvious to Tamsen _who_ had the chiffon-bloomer aura, if
that was the name for it. Jaylia Foster, or whatever she was called now,
a princess who had once expected to be a queen, spoke pure American,
taking after her mother, no doubt, and her speech habits further
reinforced by an education in New England. She was a dark blonde, with a
great hank of hair wound around a small head that tilted nicely on a
mobile neck. She was not tall but, in fact, almost as short in stature
as Tamsen herself. She was a lot . . . well, _fatter_ wasn’t the word.
Rounder? She was, if not perfectly beautiful, certainly striking,
thought Tamsen, who had known at once that she might paint that face and
that body seven times, and never catch Jaylia’s aura.

Tamsen tried to view with detachment the two kinds of magic present
here. Maggie was being the protecting angel, strong and serene,
indulgent of her protégée’s right to hold the center of the stage, so
long as Maggie chose not to have it herself. Jaylia’s magic was not that
kind. It was simply that here sat a woman possessed of a magnetism of
the flesh (that, no doubt, thought Tamsen wryly, wasn’t her _fault_) but
which drew men, any and all men—including Duncan Tyler, husband to
Tamsen.

It was the psychic equivalent of chiffon bloomers, the
now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t fascinating promise of what? Of touch,
Tamsen decided. Or just plain yumminess. All right, spell it sex. It
wasn’t youth. Jaylia must be hovering around thirty. It wasn’t
provocative clothing. She wore a dress of a brownish print, conservative
to the point of long sleeves in the summertime. It was just . . . what?
It was there.

Jaylia, however, was talking what Tamsen supposed must fall into the
category of either politics or intrigue. Duncan and the Judge (the only
men present), and sometimes Phillida, were involved in this
conversation. Tamsen only looked and listened, and Maggie was keeping
her wings furled benignly.

Duncan was asking about the last batch of riots at the University. Were
they, he wanted to know, connected with any particular issue? Or merely
the result of young exuberance, and the sheeplike nay-saying of youth to
the establishment, whatever it might be?

“They were confusing,” Jaylia said, one shoulder (no doubt
unconsciously, thought Tamsen) moving very slightly, as if to say, But
wouldn’t it be more fun to go to bed than to wonder about this sort of
thing? “We suspect, of course, that somebody was behind them. It remains
just the usual suspicion.”

“The usual,” the Judge said, smiling upon her.

“Infiltration? Divide and conquer?” said Duncan, rocking backward. “Or
local talent? Subversion? Rise of the military?”

“Al Asad _is_ the military,” said Jaylia gently.

Phillida said, in her bright way, “Did—uh—anybody really believe the
American professors were agents, inciting to riot?”

Jaylia said pleasantly, “Who knows what—uh—anybody really believes?”

“What do _you_ think Al Asad thought?” said the Judge, coming in
bluntly. “You are among friends, my dear.”

“I know,” she said with a fluttery little gasp. “But it is foolish to
try too hard to guess, I think, when it is only imagining. My mother, I
see, has been writing letters. Of course, she is a born intriguer.”

“So are you, dear,” said Maggie calmly. Jaylia cast her a startled
glance. “So am I,” said Maggie, wing-tips stirring.

When the ripple of amusement had subsided, Duncan, with the intention of
abandoning questions that the lady didn’t seem to want to answer, asked
another. “What kind of chap is this Dhanab? A nephew of the King’s,
isn’t he?”

Jaylia said, “You didn’t meet him, did you, Duncan? Oh, he is in his
early thirties. He sometimes seems young for that.” (As you do not, said
her flesh.) “He is serious-minded—I’d say.”

“A born intriguer?” said Duncan, grinning. “Or just power-mad?”

(All right, thought Tamsen, _he_ is attractive, too. I should know.)

“He wants to do what is good for his country,” said Jaylia evasively.
“About those American professors. It hasn’t occurred to any of you that
they might have been in danger?”

“Might have _been_?” said Duncan alertly.

“Oh, in the rioting, perhaps. If some unknown parties had wanted to make
awkwardness. Or just be rid of American influence in
the—uh—curriculum.”

“You mean to suggest that the King put them in _protective_ custody?”
said Duncan.

“I mean to suggest that he may have,” said Jaylia. “It’s not
impossible.”

“But I understood your mother to be . . . imagining . . .” said
Phillida, “that they might possibly be in great danger later on.”

“Al Asad will not let them go until later on,” said Jaylia, avoiding, as
had Phillida, the definition of “later on.” “But you ought not to
imagine that _he_ won’t be in charge of things. He really is quite a
marvelous old person. Although a person, with the power of life or
death, is bound to be approached a bit gingerly by most.”

“Indeed,” said Duncan. “You say he is the military? Not, then, the
anachronism he seems to be? Yet a hereditary monarchy . . .”

“Unless otherwise decreed,” she murmured.

“It’s the religious element that holds?”

“Oh, yes.”

The two of them seemed to have lost the others. “Are you . . .” Duncan
began. Jaylia was a convert.

But at this moment Mitch came in. Tamsen couldn’t help being quite glad
to see him.

The Doctor was greeted but not pressed with the question, although the
question hung in the ceiling corner like smoke.

The Doctor chose to answer it almost at once. “He’s a good little
animal, Jaylia,” said Mitch, “in every way but one. I think I can say
that he looks to be a classic case.”

“What does that mean?” Jaylia straightened and sat tall, looking with
frightened eyes at a person with the power of life or death.

“That means I see a high probability that he can successfully be patched
up,” said Mitch. “Of course, there’ll be many preparations. I can’t and
won’t attempt it for several days.”

“Aunt Maggie?” said Jaylia in a choking voice. Her face looked shocked,
thinner, almost tragically alarmed.

So Maggie simply turned the spotlight elsewhere.

“Now, Mitch,” she said plaintively, “I suppose you will poke and will
pry, and the poor little boy won’t have the faintest idea what you are
doing. No patient ever has. Is he happy, Mitch? What in the world will
he _do_, between pokings and pryings? He can’t look at the wall at the
age of eleven. Unless, of course, there is television. But _is_ that
enough?”

Maggie had put on tragic concern over what was of so little importance,
compared to such great hope after long despair.

“You’re right, Maggie,” the Doctor said. “You are absolutely right, as
usual. What he needs is a playmate. He is an awfully smart little boy.
And he would sure like to see something of this foreign land. He would
like, in fact, to take a jaunt to Disneyland, like everybody else. But,
because he is so unfortunately unable to sight-see, I wonder . . . He
could certainly use an American companion.”

“Mickey?” said Phillida. All of them were turning to chat of this kind
because of Jaylia’s stricken face.

“Well, now, Mickey,” said the Doctor, and aside, “That’s our
ten-year-old. Mickey is not quite . . . In the first place, he is in
school.”

“He could take time out,” said Mickey’s mother, “with no permanent
damage.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Mickey’s father, “but I don’t think he has . . .
well . . . the maturity. Fact is, I was thinking of Tamsen.”

“Me!” Tamsen sat up, startled.

“She being about the nearest thing to a _mature_ child we’ve got handy,”
the Doctor said fondly. “How would you like to drop by, in the
afternoons, and play with him?”

“Why, I’d just love to!” she cried. “Could I, really?”

Jaylia looked at her and said, “You!” She began to turn her head to look
at all the faces. “You . . . _all_ of you?”

“Do you know,” said Maggie, flowing to her feet, “I think that makes a
very effective exit line, my dear. I think that you and I will go
quietly upstairs now.”

“Aunt Maggie?” said Jaylia again, reaching out to her.

“It is very difficult,” decreed Maggie, “to bawl in public and not be
mortified in the morning. Come with me.”

Jaylia rose. Her hands flew out, in a begging gesture. But Maggie said
severely, “Unnecessary,” and silently led her away.

The people left behind sat stunned for a moment.

“How great the strain has been,” said the Judge finally. “Good news can
be devastating. Poor girl. It _is_ good news, Mitch.”

Mitch was making himself a cooling drink. He grinned. “Never any
guarantee, but I don’t have too many qualms. He’s got a lot going for
him, including his attitude.”

Tamsen, who had been looking at Duncan, now rose quickly. “We don’t need
an exit line,” she said. (Because one face, peeled naked, in this room
had been enough for one evening.) “Just tell me when, Mitch, please?”

“Make it two o’clock,” the Doctor said. “For an hour. Teach him to
paint, eh?”

“Oh, we can mess around, gloriously,” she promised.

“No, no,” said the Judge.

“Religion,” croaked Duncan.

“Come along, Duncan,” said Tamsen. “Although a _mature_ child, it is
early to bed for me, these days.”

“Good night, Tamsen dear,” said Phillida affectionately. “Good night,
Duncan.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

They went out to the car. They drove through sleepy Pasadena silently.
They took the Pasadena Freeway to the Harbor, to the Santa Monica,
toward home.

Duncan was driving faster than usual, waiting for what he knew would
come. Tamsen had not chosen, so uncharacteristically, to take the center
of the stage for no reason at all.

She said, at last, “Did you fall in love with her a year ago?”

“Yes,” he said.

“But you came home and married me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I love _you_,” he answered.

“_Too?_” said Tamsen keenly.

“Yes.”

“All right,” she said quietly, in a minute.

Duncan increased speed, cutting in and out of lanes recklessly. She said
nothing. After a while he was able to subdue the car to a steadier pace.

In silence they finally descended into their own terrain, and the car
came softly to rest beside their door. In silence they went into the
silent house, arms around each other.

But when he would have fallen fiercely upon her in their bed Tamsen
said, “Not at this time.”

He drew away warily.

“Because we will have so many other times,” she finished, clearly.

So Duncan left the room. He went out into the little backyard and sat
there, alone, in the darkness. To be thoroughly understood and, worse,
accepted, as the confused and ambiguous creature you really are . . .
This was not, he found, as delightful as it was cracked up to be.


                                   6

At two o’clock the following day, Tamsen Tyler fell in love.

The little boy was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and if his skin was not as
dark as the skin of his bodyguards (two youngish men, who watched Tamsen
like twin hawks for ten minutes, and then suddenly left off watching
her) the little face was handsome in much the same way as their faces.
He sat up in his high bed without really wiggling, but radiating energy
just the same.

Inga Bjornsen was a big woman, forty, at a guess, whose long bony face
fell into dour lines until she smiled at her charge. Then she was seen
to be enslaved.

Saiph, accepting Tamsen with one quick look that melted her immediately,
began to bombard her with questions. It wasn’t long before she had to
beg mercy and restrict him to one question at a time. His curiosity was
intelligent and full of fun. He was a joyous child, who came forward to
meet a stranger with an endearing trust seasoned with moments of bright
suspicion that she might be inventing such outlandish answers. But, if
so, he didn’t really mind. He was prepared to enjoy that, too.

His father had been, Tamsen supposed, a world citizen during his short
life. The little boy spoke American very fluently, with only now and
then a British twist to a vowel. But he did not think of himself as even
a quarter of an American. He was of the royal family of Alalaf. He
didn’t mind being so. The knowledge he had obviously carried for a long
time, that he might die in a very few years, had not bothered him,
either.

Tamsen was a goner.

When her hour was up and she dutifully rose to depart she said, “Tell
you what. Why don’t you write down all the questions you’ll think up
before tomorrow?” It was in her mind to give him occupation.

Saiph said, “I can remember them. Even a hundred.”

Tamsen laughed, because he was teasing her. “I wouldn’t put it past you,
at that,” she said. Then she must explain that old-fashioned idiom to
his complete satisfaction before she could get away.

Waiting for the elevator, Tamsen blew out her breath and began to wonder
what charm was. Whatever it was, that little human being had a double
dose of it. No wonder his people adored him! No wonder he had become a
magnet that drew to itself their natural love of country and had become,
therefore, their most dearly beloved, both in fact and as symbol. Oh,
how dangerous!

In the elevator she found herself to be in a state of passionate prayer.
When she got off at the ground floor, Tamsen had to hide her face as
best she could while she scurried out into the parking lot. She sat in
the car, unable to see. Duncan is right, she thought in a while, about
the heart _I’ve_ got. It could do with a little hardening, just for
practical, everyday purposes.

She remembered, then, about the night before, and was soon stiffened
enough to judge that she could, now, safely drive a car.

When she came into her house the telephone was ringing.

“Are you having lunch with Lurlene tomorrow?” Phillida wanted to know.

“Yes, I am.”

“It’s a restaurant? At noon?” Phillida seemed to be finding this hard to
believe.

“I told her I’d have to make it early.”

“I see. Well,” said Phillida, as if she were saying, So be it, “I’ll see
you there, then.”

“I guess _I_ started all this . . .” Tamsen began.

“Saturdays,” said Phillida jauntily, “don’t mean as much to me as to
some. We shall gather. Did you have fun today?”

“I can’t _tell_ you!” burst Tamsen.

“Yes, I know,” Phillida said. “A lamb. Maybe _I’ll_ have an engagement
at two tomorrow also. That might be a good idea.”

“All right,” said Tamsen, and burst again, “I don’t _like_ . . .
sneaking around.”

“You mean lying?” said Phillida. “Oh, you’ll get the knack of it.”

Phillida hung up and called Lurlene back. “I’ve found my little book,”
she lied cheerfully, “and I see that I _can_ make it. Thanks so much,
Lurlene, I’ll be there then.”

“I’m so glad you can make it,” said Lurlene, and added helplessly,
“Thanks so much.”

She said to Rufus, rather defensively, “But I’m not going to ask Maggie.
Anyhow, she’s supposed to have house guests.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

“I would have asked Maggie, too,” Lurlene was saying, “but I happen to
know she has house guests. And I wouldn’t want her to feel, you know,
pressured?” She smiled archly.

Tamsen’s heart had jumped, but Phillida said, “The food here is not
half-bad.”

Tamsen sensed the noncommunication. Phillida had meant this in praise of
pleasure. The hostess was taking it for condescension.

Lurlene said, “It’s nothing fancy. But I thought—just some quiet place
where we could talk, you know?”

The middling-good restaurant was sparsely populated at the early hour
and, so far, quiet enough. They had a table in the middle of the room.
Tamsen was wearing a gray seersucker suit, and Phillida was effortlessly
elegant in what seemed to be blue linen, with sleeves. Lurlene had
chosen a sleeveless dress of shocking pink, and the air conditioning was
putting goose pimples on her bare upper arms.

But if they were here to talk, someone must speak, and they had already
discussed the fact that it was much cooler today. So Lurlene moistened
her mouth and said, “Say, I was reading this article about the little
Prince of Al . . . How do you pronounce that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Phillida, quickly and softly. “Don’t let’s
pronounce it.”

“It didn’t say anything about his being sick,” said Lurlene, rather more
loudly than she had been speaking. “I certainly do hope that Mitch is
going to be able to—”

“Shut up,” said Phillida.

Lurlene said, in a startled way, “What’s the _matter_ with you?”

“Just don’t shout,” said Phillida, “other people’s business.”

“Well, I’m _sorry_,” said Lurlene, in outrage.

Tamsen realized that Phillida was very angry indeed. She was struggling
with the anger, but it was rendering her speechless at the moment.

So Tamsen said to Lurlene, softly, “Maggie didn’t want us to talk about
it, that’s all.”

“‘Just for the family,’ eh?” Lurlene quoted the code phrase in a huffy
manner. “I _know_ that. Pardon _me_, if I thought this _was_ just the
family.”

“This is a public place,” snapped Phillida. “No names, if you don’t
mind?”

Phillida was furious. Lurlene had been deeply offended. Tamsen was
frightened and miserable.

“Nobody’s paying any attention to us,” she said as lightly as she could.
“Don’t worry.”

Phillida’s eyes met hers with a stab of rage, but then Phillida won her
battle, blinked and smiled.

“What in the world’s so secret about it, when it’s in the papers?”
Lurlene muttered.

“What is in the papers?” said Phillida, coolly.

“Nothing,” said Tamsen quickly.

“I won’t mention any _names_,” said Lurlene loftily, “but I can’t
understand a white woman getting mixed up with those people in the first
place. And I don’t think she’s so beautiful, either.” Lurlene had seen
an old picture of Jaylia, in an old magazine.

“People are different,” said Tamsen gently. “You _can’t_ understand,
really. People fall in love, for instance.”

Phillida had become herself again, and she said, “Oh, they do. They do.
Will you forgive me, Lurlene? I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat,
really.”

But Lurlene had no grace available for accepting apologies. “If I’m not
supposed to say one word to you girls, then Maggie should’ve left me out
of it,” she said sourly. “I’m very sorry, I’m sure, Phillida.”

She had no grace to make an apology, either. Phillida held herself
still.

Tamsen said, “Duncan was telling me about the University.” She thought
the air must be cleared, and some chatter that might circle harmlessly
around the subject would do it. “Do you know that the . . . uh . . .
founder had a couple of years of schooling in England in his day? And
the . . . uh . . . son was educated all over Europe? But it seems that
this is not considered good enough, or proper, for the grandson. So,
nothing loath, the grandfather up and caused there to _be_ a university.
I think that’s touching.”

“Expensive, too,” said Phillida, still busy with her own temper.
“Although, in my opinion, the grandson is worth it.”

“Of course,” said Tamsen, as her heart jumped again, “once you start
educating people, anything can happen.”

“I guess I wouldn’t understand what it feels like—to be beautiful or
educated,” said Lurlene darkly.

“Oh, Lurlene,” said Tamsen, searching backward to the remark that had
caused this response, “I didn’t mean you couldn’t understand. I meant
_one_ couldn’t understand.”

Phillida said, “Why don’t we get off the subject and stay off? The enemy
has ears, as they used to say in some war or other.”

“What enemy is this?” said Lurlene, and added, in what was close to
being a snarl, “Me?”

She was set to quarrel; she was going to quarrel. Her party was in
shreds already; she didn’t care anymore.

Phillida put down her teacup and said quietly, “Lurlene, you are not to
say one more word about those people, or that situation, to anyone,
anywhere. And if you don’t understand why not, you had better just take
my word for it.”

“Oh, I understand why not,” said Lurlene angrily. She was going to be
sarcastic. Just because you say so, eh? she meant to add. But Tamsen
jumped in.

“Good,” she said warmly. “I thought Maggie must have made it clear. And
nobody heard, here. Everything’s all right.”

Tamsen simply was not sure yet how much Lurlene knew, and she was, in
part, probing to find out.

But Lurlene said to Phillida, “_I_ didn’t know you went with Mitch.”

“Went where?”

“To the place of the name I’m not supposed to say out loud,” said
Lurlene loudly, “and can’t pronounce anyway.”

“No, I didn’t go,” said Phillida. Her eyes sought Tamsen’s. Perhaps
Phillida had made a mistake or two.

“_Mitch_ says the little kid is worth it, eh?” Lurlene looked shrewd.

“Yes, he does,” said Phillida.

“So I suppose Mitch thinks he’s going to live long enough to go to
college—” Lurlene was very loud.

Phillida coldly surrendered. “Lurlene,” she interrupted in a low but
emphatic voice, “your ignorance is going to make trouble. So you’ll have
to know. The boy is here, in the hospital secretly, and his mother is
Maggie’s house guest. It is a secret and very important that it stay a
secret. You mustn’t say one word that anyone could possibly overhear. Do
you understand?”

Lurlene was staring. Color came into her face. “But _Tamsen_ knew all
about it, eh?”

Tamsen said, “Oh, Lurlene, it’s just that Duncan knows them. And Mitch
does too, of course.”

“And _my_ husband don’t?” said Lurlene belligerently.

“But there was no need. Surely you see,” Tamsen pleaded, “the fewer who
know, the better.”

Phillida was letting Tamsen do the pleading. Her tall body was rigid.
Tamsen, however, had reason to despair of ever getting into Lurlene’s
head the reasons for silence. So she veered, to try another path.

“Now that you know, you couldn’t possibly do anything to hurt a child.
_I_ know that.” Tamsen was nearly whispering. “If it gets out, he’ll be
so pestered, Lurlene. It could keep him from getting well. Please?”
Tamsen leaned back. “Oh, what am I saying? _I_ know how much you love
children.”

Lurlene’s mouth moved, whether smirk or sneer there was no telling.

“I’ve so often wondered,” Tamsen leaned toward her again, her soft voice
dripping sympathy, “if your heart wasn’t just about to break sometimes.”
Tamsen touched the bare forearm. It winced but did not reject. Lurlene’s
face was losing the look of hard anger, softening with surprise. “I
mean, because you haven’t had one of your own. I know it isn’t my
business, but you _would_ make the most marvelous mother.”

Lurlene’s eyes were filling. “Nobody ever seems to notice how _I_ feel,”
she murmured.

“Oh, I _have_ noticed,” said Tamsen. “But it’s not easy to say anything.
I’ve been pretty sure it hurts you—a lot. There may be some strange
women who don’t love children, but that wouldn’t be you.”

“It isn’t me,” whimpered Lurlene. “I been to doctors. I mean, I tried. I
guess God just doesn’t want me to have any.”

“But you are young,” cooed Tamsen. “I just know how you would protect a
child. Any child. That’s how I know you’ll help us protect this little
one.”

Lurlene found her handkerchief. “Of course,” she sniffled. “Sometimes,
you know, I just don’t understand . . .”

“But you are much too young to give up hoping,” Tamsen cooed on.

                 *        *        *        *        *

When Lurlene left them in the parking lot and they walked in another
direction Phillida said dryly, “You’re getting the knack, aren’t you?”

“I couldn’t think of any other way to make the point,” said Tamsen
miserably. “It was awful. I must have sounded like daytime television.”

“Never mind,” said Phillida, “as long as it works. I must say _I_
couldn’t have done that.”

They were standing, now, beside Phillida’s car.

“Oh well, you don’t have a heart that bleeds every hour on the hour,”
said Tamsen, “as Duncan says _mine_ does.”

Phillida said, “I won’t have Mitch bothered. That’s the truth of it.
What a fool I was,” she added ruefully. “I must practice being as angry
as that.”

“You’re _not_ used to it, are you?” said Tamsen innocently.

Phillida eyed her a moment, then smiled and went away.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Lurlene came into the house and found Rufus watching daytime television.
She said nothing.

Becoming aware of this, he stirred and said, “How did it go?”

“Swell,” she said bitterly. “Just swell. Guess what? That little Prince
Saiph—and holy cats, what names they got, that you aren’t supposed to
mention! Well, they _got_ him, right here in the hospital, and his mama,
the big old beeyootiful princess, is staying at Maggie’s, and you and me
aren’t supposed to know a thing about it.”

“That so?” He was not perturbed or especially interested.

“Because we’re ignorant!” she said furiously. “We’d tell the enemy, or
something. We’re _stupid_!” she screamed at him.

“I don’t _know_ any top secrets to tell the enemy,” he said. “How about
that?” She could have slapped the silly look off his face.

“Well, I’m telling you, I’ve _had_ it,” she cried. “Fifteen bucks, it
cost me. For what? To get insulted.”

“Who insulted you?” Rufus blinked as if, at last, he paid some real
attention.

Lurlene said, with hot eyes, “Dear little Tamsen.”

Because butter was butter, and on the way home Lurlene had recognized
the aftertaste.


                                   7

In the Monday morning newspaper there was a paragraph at the bottom of
page one.

              BOY PRINCE IN HOSPITAL, FOR SERIOUS SURGERY

It was a very short paragraph and said little more.

Jaylia saw it and moved her shoulders. “Here we go,” she said. Maggie
wailed dismay. The Judge went into his study and got on the phone, but
the people he called had already seen the paper.

Phillida saw it, and paced her apartment.

Dr. Mitchel Tyler heard about it at the hospital, where Secret Service
men had multiplied and become visible. The elevator was severely guarded
now. No one, no one at all (except the Doctor), got off at the fifth
floor without being first questioned about, and then escorted on,
whatever legitimate visit he had to make.

Duncan saw the paragraph and exploded where he sat.

Tamsen said, “Oh, no . . . I hope . . . Oh, no, I hope . . . Oh, no
. . . I hope . . .” She was a broken record, but he didn’t stop her or
try to comfort her. He dashed to the phone. He dashed out of the house.
He was not going to the University this Monday morning.

Lurlene saw it, and was pleased to contemplate her right to say, “Some
secret! Yah! I told you so.” Upon reflection, she did not mention this
to Rufus.

Rufus didn’t see it. He was reading the sports page. He had gone to the
ball game yesterday, and he liked to be told what he had enjoyed.

When Tamsen arrived at the hospital at two o’clock that afternoon she
had to prove her identity and her privilege. It took her twenty minutes
to proceed from the elevator to the suite.

There was another Secret Service man outside that door and she had to
prove her identity and her right to enter all over again.

When she was inside, Hayyan and Kasim fastened fierce looks upon her
face, went with her into the boy’s room, did not leave it, but stationed
themselves to watch her every eye blink. Inga was sitting at the bedside
and she did not rise. Her face was dour.

But the little boy greeted her as usual. Tamsen didn’t know whether to
mention all these changes in the atmosphere or ignore them. While she
was still trying to decide Saiph decided.

“Tamsen.” He liked to use her name and did it rather shyly, always with
a sideways glance as if to say, “Do you want to take back your
permission now?”

“Yes, old-timer?” This was a form of address that had made him laugh one
day.

“Do the people here want to kill me?”

“Oh no, no, _no_!” Tamsen rocked with dismay. “We want you to be _well_.
We want that very much.” (But, of course, in view of all the fuss that
was being made, this would not do.) So she said, “The trouble is, Saiph,
there are always some crazy people. And it is just that we not only
don’t want, but we just won’t _let_, anything bad happen to you. We’re
not taking any chances.”

“I understand that, you know,” he said reassuringly. “There are crazy
people in Alalaf, too. Drug-eaters, for instance.”

“Yes,” she said miserably.

“But if you aren’t taking any chances, why are you so unhappy?”

“I just wish,” she said, “that it was still a secret.”

“Do you _like_ secrets?”

“No, I don’t _like_ them,” she answered honestly, “but they can
sometimes be a good thing.”

Saiph said something to his bodyguards in their own language. They both
grinned wide and murmured appreciation.

“What does your name mean?” asked the Prince in a moment.

“My _name_? Oh.” Tamsen settled back in the visitor’s chair. “Once upon
a time there was a girl’s name, Thomasina. That would be
‘Little-Girl-Thomas,’ do you see? But it was easier to say ‘Tamsen.’ And
that’s what people began to say. And then they began to spell it the way
they said it. My mother thought it was a pretty name. So she gave it to
me.”

“I think it _is_ a pretty name,” he said politely. “Do you know what my
nickname means?”

“No.”

“Al Saiph. That means ‘The Sword.’” There was mischief in his eye.

“Oh?” Tamsen was wondering how she could bear it if anything bad
happened to him.

“No crazy people are going to come walking in here,” said Saiph somewhat
wistfully. “Or at least I don’t think so. Do you?”

“They’d better not,” she said.

“That’s right. They’d better not. So I wish you wouldn’t worry”—he
hesitated—“Little-Girl-Thomas?”

“I think you’re right.” She braced up violently, lest she bawl. “O.K.,”
she snapped.

“O.K.,” he said with a snap. It was a bargain.

“What shall we do today? What would you like to do?”

Saiph, politely ignoring her inner turbulence, considered her question
gravely. “I will teach you a game, if you like,” he said. “It is easy to
learn, but it is very hard to play.” He was challenging her. Tamsen was
fairly sure that he thought she ought to have her mind engaged, so that
her female twitterings would be put aside.

Sure enough, she found herself being taught the rules and objectives of
a game she had noticed the two guards playing mysteriously, with little
heaps of pebbles. It was mathematically based and Tamsen, to whom
mathematics was a dim thicket she had never really pierced, was forced
to try very hard to understand. Her teacher, although he kept advising
her on the best strategy, respectfully did not make mistakes himself, to
let her win.

                 *        *        *        *        *

On television that evening, the boy was identified as the son of his
father, of whom there were lurid remembrances. And of his mother, who
had had her share of publicity in earlier times. Her presence here was
not revealed, nor was the Doctor’s name mentioned, nor the precise
nature of the boy’s problem. But the King, his grandfather, was
mentioned. Then the case of the twenty-eight American professors was
tacked on, although not specifically connected. The result was hint, for
wonder, for gossip, for warning, of Big Story coming up!

Tamsen watched the eleventh-hour news and turned it off.

Duncan was not at home. She knew where he was, but she was feeling
almost unbearably alone. She had not phoned, not spoken, to any member
of the family all day. Duncan had suggested that it might not be wise.
She was ready to climb the wall when he finally came in.

“How are they?” She was dancing with nervousness.

“Rolling with it,” he said. “What else is there to do? The only good
thing is, as Maggie says, the whole damn world looking over Mitch’s
shoulder isn’t going to change the tiniest muscle in _that_ hand, thank
God.” Duncan sat down, looking exhausted.

“But the world . . . The hospital hasn’t given out Mitch’s name.”

“Aw, come on,” he said wearily.

Tears began to stream down Tamsen’s face. “If it was my fault . . .” she
quavered.

Duncan looked at her, with neither condemnation nor comfort. “It
happened. Oh, it went through Rufus, all right.”

Tamsen squealed with pain.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, “it happened the way it happened. I’ve
been all day tracking down exactly how it happened. I’ve got every link
in the chain, and it leads right smack dead-on to my brother Rufus.”

“And so to Lurlene?” she whimpered. “And so to me?”

“All right,” said Duncan, in his exhaustion. “You are a miserable sinner
and ought to be drawn and quartered. Is that what you want to hear?”

Tamsen took hold of herself. “No,” she said thinly, “but I’d like to be
sure exactly what I _did_ have to do with it. How did it happen?”

“Well.” He gave her a somewhat gruesome smile as apology. “I finally
found the fellow who brought in the story to the newspaper,” he said
drearily, “and it took some chasing around and some persuasion, but I
finally got hold of his source. And when I got to the source of the
source—it seems that Rufus went to the ball game Sunday with a couple
of his cronies. And when the inning was getting a little dull he,
evidently making small-talk,” said Duncan bitterly, “or just for the
hell of it—broadcast the whole business.”

Tamsen had stopped crying. It had become obvious that she could not just
keep on crying. “Did you talk to Rufus?”

“I did not. Wouldn’t trust myself not to wring his fool neck.”

“There are guards all over the hospital,” she told him.

“They are more conspicuous, eh? Oh, the State Department was never about
to let anything happen _here_. Don’t worry about Saiph. They’re not
going to let a mosquito get at him. It’s what might be going on in
Alalaf.”

“Oh, Duncan, what might?”

“Dad says to me, _privately_ . . .”

“All right,” said Tamsen.

“That Alice Foster isn’t safe there. How’s that for openers?” He got up.
“Phillida says that _she_ told Lurlene, and that _she_ judged it to be
necessary. Phillida says she laid secrecy on the line and you did your
best to persuade Lurlene to keep quiet. So nobody is blaming you.
Unless”—now he was sad—“you absolutely have to blame yourself?”

“Not unless I see I absolutely have to,” she answered bravely.

“Good.” He kissed her brow. “Honey, I’m bushed. I’m going to bed.
Stewing and fretting and assigning blame isn’t going to help one damn
thing in the world.”

But Tamsen’s brain had clicked. “Then why did you spend all day tracking
down the source?” she asked.

He reeled and answered. “So that it won’t happen again,” he said
patiently. “So that we can know what we have to deal with here. So we
can do better next time. Why else?”

Tamsen said, “Is she . . . terribly upset?”

“No, no,” said Duncan. Then he realized that neither of them doubted
that the other understood the pronoun, and he grinned at her painfully.
“But _I_ am,” he confessed. “It makes me pretty sick to know that it got
out through the family. I don’t blame myself, and I don’t cry easy. But
_I_ am a very upset fella.”

“Go to bed,” said Tamsen gently.


                                   8

Tuesday morning there were headlines. Determined assault had evidently
breached the walls of silence at the hospital, at some weak point. Now
the world was told that it was a matter of life or death for the heir to
the throne of Alalaf. And the Doctor’s name was proclaimed, with a
résumé of his career, and sentences out of medical journals about his
revolutionary technique. The most sensational sentences were, naturally,
assumed to be the simplest for the layman to understand.

Two columnists analyzed the American image, as seen from Alalaf. One
viewed the record with alarm and assessed a possible future improvement
if American know-how saved the royal child. The other assessed the
record as spotty, and viewed with alarm the possible future damages “if
anything goes wrong.” The one outlined Al Asad as a human grandfather,
after all. The other painted him a primitive tyrant, unpredictable in
his powerful ignorance.

By afternoon the news was out that severe rioting had taken place in the
capital, and Al Asad, in the course of putting it down with a ruthless
(or firm) use of the brutal (or loyal) military, had restored order with
the loss of only three lives, although a dozen or more nameless natives
had been (more or less) critically injured.

The hollow-cheeked, hollow-eyed prophets of doom on television, that
evening, began to speculate openly on the consequences if the young
prince did not survive the very tricky, very dubiously new, surgical
procedure. “Worry, worry,” they said to their viewers.

On Wednesday morning the story was rehash, but it kept the tension
going. It had “heart.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

On Wednesday afternoon Rufus was driving in his normal style, not very
fast, and wandering rather dreamily from lane to lane, as the whim took
him. But Lurlene felt so nervous she wished she had taken another
tranquillizer. They had been summoned. She had dressed carefully because
it could be that they had been summoned to meet this princess. But the
truth was Lurlene didn’t know what to make of such a summons. It had
never happened before.

The Judge opened the door himself and said, “Come in,” gravely. He was
not smiling. The spacious house seemed very silent. You could
practically hear the dust motes floating in the air. They were to go
into the study. Lurlene hung back, with leaden legs, but Rufus went on
into the room and she heard him say cheerfully, “Hi, Maggie.”

“Go in, please,” the Judge said, behind Lurlene. So she had to go in.

Maggie was sitting on the big black leather couch that was let into a
niche among the bookcases. She was sitting tall; she was not smiling.

“Sit there, please,” the Judge said, indicating the two leather chairs
angled toward each other, across from the couch, a cozy conversational
grouping of furniture that was arranged here in the center of the long
narrow room. The Judge’s big desk was at the far end. He did not go to
his desk, but sat down beside Maggie.

“What’s up?” said Rufus. “Who else is coming?”

“No one,” said Maggie. Her voice was like a bell tolling.

“Well, say,” said Lurlene from sheer nerves, “this is an unexpected
. . .”

But Maggie’s look stabbed all the way through to Lurlene’s frightened
core and she couldn’t finish. She tried to relax, but the big chair was
so tilted for lounging that when she put her back against its back, she
felt like a stuffed doll, limp and helpless, her stomach humping up and
her legs dangling.

The Judge said to Rufus, “Exactly when did you find out that the Prince
of Alalaf was here, in the hospital?”

“Oh, that?” said Rufus. His lips were moist. He smiled his little
chirrupy kind of smile.

(He don’t know what it’s all about, his wife thought. He never, never
did. And she made, within herself, a hard resolve.)

The Judge knew that his was the role of reason and justice. Maggie was
probably going to let loose later on. But she conceded him his turn, and
first. So the Judge put his mind to it.

“Will you answer the question, please?” His deep voice was not
impassioned.

“Well, let me see.” Rufus began to slam his skull with his palm in that
idiotic gesture that means “I am jolting my memory to make it work,” as
if a memory were a balky piece of machinery in a case. (The Judge was
feeling very sad.) “Must have been the day Lurlene took the girls to
lunch,” said Rufus. “When was that, Lu?”

“Saturday,” she said shortly.

“They told _you_, Lurlene, at lunch that day?” asked the Judge, who knew
this already.

“Yes, they did,” she said, as brightly as she could.

“They also told you that it must be kept a secret?”

“They sure did. I thought it _was_ supposed to be a secret but, I mean,
I see in the paper . . .”

The Judge lifted his hand to stop her; his eyes were sharp. “You told
Rufus, that day?”

“Well, certainly,” said Lurlene, bridling as best she could in her
semireclining position. She began to struggle to sit up straighter. “Why
shouldn’t I tell my own husband?” she said, with wide eyes. “He’s a
Tyler, too, ain’t he?”

“Yes,” said the Judge, “he is. Did you tell anyone else at all?”

“Of course not,” she said. “I certainly did not.”

Rufus had been blinking and looking from face to face. “You know, I
don’t get this,” he said unnecessarily.

“You went to a baseball game on Sunday afternoon?” the Judge said to
him. “You told a man named Ed Duveen that the boy was here, and you told
him why?”

“I did? Well, yes, I guess I did. I must say I didn’t realize it was
that much of a secret.” Rufus was turning a bit pompous.

“You should’ve,” murmured Lurlene, her heart pounding visibly.

“The fact is,” Rufus went on, “Ed Duveen is a very close friend of mine
. . .”

The Judge said, “Do you remember your mother warning us all that what
she was about to say concerning Alice Foster’s letter from Alalaf was
‘just for the family’?”

“When was that?” said Rufus, frowning a little.

“You know what that phrase means to us?”

“Certainly I do,” said Rufus promptly. “Look, I’m sorry if I spoke out
of turn, but I can’t see . . .”

“Because you spoke out of turn,” the Judge said, “all the news media are
now telling that secret to the entire world.”

“Because of me?” said Rufus.

Lurlene had taken courage (because Rufus _was_ stupid, and she felt
protected now). “Pardon me, Judge, but how do you know it was because of
him? It didn’t have to be, did it?”

“I know it was,” said the Judge quietly, “because Duncan spent all day
Monday tracking it down. There is no doubt about it.”

“What do you mean, Duncan tracking it down?” Rufus, still bewildered,
now began to be resentful. “I don’t get this!”

“We had to know whether it was a member of the family who betrayed this
secret,” said Maggie icily.

“You could have asked me, Mother,” said Rufus, and his back slapped the
back of his chair with a sharp sound.

“Or _you_ could have told us,” said Lurlene, “all about it, in the first
place.” (She kept thinking that she didn’t have to sit here and take
this, and then realizing that she _was_ sitting here and taking this.)
“Or else the girls should have kept still and _not_ told me.”

“I believe that I have heard,” the Judge said patiently, “what was said
at the luncheon table, and why. I am ready, of course, to listen to your
version.”

“I don’t see any point in telling any version,” Lurlene muttered.
“You’ve got your minds made up,” she added sullenly.

“I believe that you, too, Lurlene, heard Maggie’s warning. And I believe
that you have already told me that the girls did warn you. And very
carefully.”

“Yah, but _I_ didn’t tell,” cried Lurlene. “_I_ didn’t go around
telling. I told Rufus, that’s all. I already said that, didn’t I?”

Maggie said, in that voice of ice, shimmering cool and far away, “Did
you, very, very carefully, explain to Rufus that it must be kept
secret?”

“I _said_ I did,” cried Lurlene, “and if you’re going to call me a liar,
on top of everything . . .” Lurlene began to weep.

The Judge suspected that she was a liar, to some degree. He said to his
son, sadly, “But you did not realize?”

“Maybe I wasn’t paying too much attention,” said Rufus. “I don’t
understand why it was supposed to be such a secret.” He was querulous.

“You need not understand,” his mother said. “When you are told a secret,
and told that it is one, then you ought to keep it. Is it possible that
you do not understand that?”

Rufus began to flush. “Well, I’m sorry. I know I’m stupid.”

“But that is so very simple,” said Maggie, and her voice mourned. “A
matter of principle, very simple.”

The Judge himself was wincing now. Rufus was looking blank.

Lurlene said, sniffling, “Are they pestering the poor little boy?
Honest, I wouldn’t have had him _pestered_ . . .”

“He won’t be pestered,” the Judge said.

“But then,” Lurlene looked up from her handkerchief, “I don’t see what
the fuss is all _about_, really. I mean . . .”

Maggie let loose her wrath. “I had assumed you were not malicious. But I
hadn’t known you were dangerous. It is our luck, and yours, too, that
your brother will not be affected, that you _cannot_ make Mitchel do
less than his best, which is very good indeed.”

Rufus said boldly, as if he had been stung at last, “Then what _is_ the
fuss about—if no harm’s been done?”

“That’s right,” chimed Lurlene, in support. She thought it was a darned
good point.

“Harm was done,” said Maggie with a frightening drop to a sad calm.
“There are three people, dead on the streets of Alalaf, who might not
have died if you had held your tongue. The fact is, you ought to have
held your tongue, and you did not. I can only conclude that I was quite
right not to tell you ‘all about it’ in the first place, and wrong to
have given you even the slightest hint.

“You are my children,” Maggie continued with a curious grace. “You are
welcome here. And always will be. But it is dangerous and unwise to tell
you secrets, isn’t it? For that I am sorry, but it is not I who can help
it. Excuse me, now?” She rose and she left the room.

The Judge rose. “I think that is what we wanted to say.” He felt
helpless and sorry.

In the car Lurlene said, “Um, boy! The good old Princess, she probably
bawled _Maggie_ out. That’s probably at the bottom of it.” She glanced
at his face slyly. Rufus was driving more erratically than ever, but his
face was blank.

“I guess Maggie’s not so crazy about being bawled out,” said Lurlene.
“You want to know something? Neither am I. And I don’t think they were
very fair to you, hon. Honest, I don’t.”

He didn’t speak. Well, he was dumb. He _was_ stupid. Lurlene could rely
on that.

“Listen, sumpin’s phony about the whole thing though,” she went on.
“Tamsen tells me it’s because the kid could get pestered. So now the
Judge says that’s not true. What are _we_ supposed to think?”

He didn’t answer. She moved closer to him. “Gee, honey,” she said, “I
guess you shouldn’t have ever married me. Your family thinks I’m some
kind of slob, all right. Well, what’s that they put on ashtrays? ‘I may
be a slob, but I’m sincere.’” She laughed, in a tense way.

“My brother,” said Rufus, talking like _them_ somehow (as he sometimes
did, although on the whole he had long ago fallen into Lurlene’s speech
habits), “my brother Duncan tracked me down.”

“And didn’t even have the decency to come and _ask_ you,” she supplied.
“And Tamsen and Phillida, oh, sure . . . They go blabbing to the Judge,
everything that was said at _my_ party. Believe me, you don’t catch me
giving any more luncheons for them two. Well, I guess you and me are
o-u-t out.”

“Tracked me down.” Rufus seemed stricken by this, in particular.

“And Duncan, he goes blabbing to the Judge and Maggie, too,” Lurlene was
happy to continue.

“But _Mitch_ was in the paper this morning.”

“Yah!” said Lurlene. “Yah, and here _you_ went ahead and killed off
three of them Arabs, or whatever they are, just while you’re sitting at
the ball game, thousands of miles away.” She began to laugh a little
hysterically. “I don’t _believe_ that. That’s ridiculous, that is. I
don’t know what they think I am, but _that_ stupid I’m not.”

She glanced at his face again.

Rufus said, “She _acts_, you know.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“The whole thing is phony.”

He had such a funny look on his face that Lurlene didn’t dare prod him
to explain this. She simply agreed with him.


                                   9

On Thursday, Saiph’s smiling face decked the covers of two news
magazines. The morning paper quoted rumors of mysterious inside
seethings in Alalaf. There was a rumor that American women and children
were quietly being evacuated. There was a rumor of bombings. A rumor of
a possible coup in progress. Rumors of rumors, flying among the people,
that the Little Prince had been spirited away to the U. S. A. by his
foreign mother on false pretenses, never to return. That the King, being
senile, had been deceived. That the young man, nicknamed Dhanab, was
preparing to seize power and act as regent for the boy, as in any case
he might do when the old King died. Once in charge, Dhanab proposed to
insist that the boy return at once. Dhanab was a strong man. Dhanab was
weak, but a patriot, and riding the wave of the future. Dhanab was a
mystery. All these rumors were unconfirmed. But there was some hard news
of mobs screaming anti-American slogans.

In the privacy of the suite on the fifth floor at the hospital, that
same Thursday morning, while elsewhere Dr. Mitchel Tyler applied himself
to his delicate work, the women sat waiting. There was Jaylia, the
patient’s mother; Inga, his nurse; Tamsen, his playmate; and Maggie.

It was Maggie who kept talking, rambling in a gentle voice over many
inconsequential topics. The two guards sat on the floor, their fierce
eyes frustrated; yet they listened now and then. Maggie kept on talking.

                 *        *        *        *        *

At noon there was a news special on TV, a so-called roundup. Lurlene and
Rufus, eating their sandwiches and drinking their glasses of beer, sat
before the little window to the world.

“Before this broadcast is over, we hope to be able to bring you a
bulletin from the hospital, where an American surgeon is now . . .” The
situation was rehashed.

Then all the rumors were repeated, and a few added. There was a rumor
that a bomb may have been thrown at an apartment house where Mrs. Alice
Foster, the Little Prince’s American grandmother, was alleged to be
staying. The bomb had been a dud. Or, no dud, but little damage. Or,
guards on the building had made the bomb ineffective. All these rumors
were unconfirmed.

When the supply of rumors ran out, the commentators began on the boy’s
family tree. When that ran out, they began on his doctor’s. And, by now,
time was running out of the allotted hour.

“Dr. Mitchel Tyler is the brilliant son of Judge William Rufus Tyler,
who is well-known all over this country as . . .” and so on and so on.

“Dr. Tyler’s mother is the incomparable Maggie Mitchel, the famous
actress, who . . .” and so on and so on.

Time was running as fast as the last grains of salt. The commentator was
reaching. “Dr. Tyler is married to Phillida Tyler, prominent directress
of many charitable . . .” and so on.

“Dr. Tyler’s brother, Duncan, will be one of the youngest men . . .” and
so on.

“Duncan Tyler’s wife is Tamsen Tyler, voted by some to be the West’s
most promising young artist of our time . . .” and so on.

“For those who tuned in late, we are awaiting some news from St.
Genevieve’s Hospital, where the eleven-year-old Prince of Alalaf . . .”
and so on and so on. Then staccato—“_Just a minute!_”

The commentator put a hand out of the picture and plucked a strip of
paper from unseen regions.

“The operation has been performed,” he announced, “and was successful!
The Little Prince is in the recovery room and will be in intensive care
for some time. He is doing well! Doing well! This is good news. Ladies
and gentlemen, this is good news! The Little Prince is doing well!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

In the hospital, Jaylia was on the phone to the Palace in Alalaf.

In the other room, Maggie was on the phone, calling the family. The
Judge at home. Phillida at her office. Duncan at the University.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Lurlene answered the telephone.

“Oh, Maggie,” she said, rolling her eyes around to signal Rufus. “We
just now heard it on TV. But thanks for calling. Um . . . I’m sure
_glad_. We . . . we felt awful. I mean, Rufus didn’t mean a thing, you
know? But we both felt just awful about it.”

“I thought you would be glad to hear,” said Maggie. “It has been a long
morning.”

“Oh, it sure has! I’m real glad. I think it’s just wonderful!”

“Yes. Give my love to Rufus.”

“Oh, I sure will!”

But she did not. Lurlene hung up and went over to the couch and flung
herself face down. The special on TV was over. She never paid much
attention to commercials.

Rufus said, “Was that Maggie?”

“Calling up to tell us the good news,” said Lurlene. “Nice of her, I
guess. Only _I_ thought they weren’t going to tell us the time of day
anymore.”

“She was upset the other day,” he said vaguely.

“Yah, sure. Me, too. But nobody wants to know how _I_ feel.”

“Lurlene,” he said earnestly. He must have moved. He was standing over
her. “You were always the girl for me. You’re Mrs. Rufus Tyler, and
don’t you forget that.”

“I’m not _going_ to,” she snuffled.

“And I promised you . . .”

“Don’t bother. Just don’t _bother_.” She turned her face into the
upholstery.

“Honey-Lu?”

“I notice how they said ‘and the doctor’s brother, Rufus Tyler.’ I
notice _that_, all right.”

“Don’t worry, hon.”

“What have _I_ got to worry about?” Lurlene was bawling. “Your father
pays on the mortgage. That’s all _I_ need, in this world.”

“Don’t worry,” he kept saying dully.

                 *        *        *        *        *

At the hospital Maggie, having announced that there were too many people
here, stepped with Tamsen out of the building into a pack of newsmen.
Maggie handled them with an awesome grace.

She had come with Jaylia, in a chauffeur-driven car, accompanied by a
Secret Service man, so Tamsen got into it with her to be taken to where
Tamsen had hidden her own Volkswagen, some blocks away.

“He isn’t perfectly safe yet,” said Tamsen, “is he?”

“He never will be, and who ever is?” said Maggie with an exhausted sigh.
“We must give thanks and rejoice for so much, so far.”

“And Mrs. Foster is all right, too. Alice Foster?”

“So far,” said Maggie. “She sounded happy on the telephone.”

“You were wonderful,” said Tamsen. “And his mother was wonderful, I
thought.”

“What was so wonderful?” said Maggie musingly. “He might have died. He
still may. Any of us may, at any moment.”

“Though true,” said Tamsen dryly, “that never did comfort _me_ much.”

Maggie was cheered immediately, and she laughed. “Then don’t you let
it,” she said gaily. “Don’t you let fate keep kicking you in the teeth,
without making some human protest. Otherwise, what’s the fun of it all?”

“Mitch protested,” said Tamsen, “didn’t he?”

“Yes, my dear. He did, indeed.” Maggie kissed her a fond farewell and
announced that she was going home to interfere with the destiny of one
clump of iris. Maggie was going to thin it out, because she was alive
and, for the duration, she chose to consider her garden _her_ garden.

                 *        *        *        *        *

That evening Judge Tyler spoke calmly about brinkmanship in human
affairs which, being the art of sensitive, quick and bold response to
whatever should happen to happen next, could never be explained to the
general populace because it never stood still long enough. His mellow
discourse made Jaylia nod, and Maggie smile.

That evening Phillida Tyler paced her apartment and used some unladylike
words. Her husband had done damn brilliantly well but, alas, the shame
of publicity was upon him, and now he must live that down, damn and
blast! Her explosions made the Doctor chuckle.

That evening Duncan Tyler lectured to his wife on the subject of news
columnists. “You’ve heard that the Devil can quote Scripture to his
purpose? Likewise, whatever somebody wants to ‘see by the papers’ that
‘they say’ (or, in other words, whatever he needs to reinforce his
original prejudice), he can find it, in one column or another. The fact
that those boys are working stiffs and must turn out the daily stint,
who thinks of that?” It pleased Tamsen to hear him holding forth in his
old vein.

That evening Rufus Tyler entertained Ed Duveen and his wife with
boastful accounts of the prowess of the members of his remarkable
family, and how their names were destined for the history books, all
right. It made Lurlene nervous for some reason.


                                   10

Over the weekend the news broke that the coup, or whatever it had been
intended to be, had failed in Alalaf. But—mild sensation—Dhanab had
not been seen for forty-eight hours. He had vanished. Nobody knew
whether he was dead or alive or, in either case, where. The old King
rode high. But the little country was rumored to be on a brink, from
which it must tilt onward or fall back. The great holes in its fabric,
between jet plane and donkey, between howling wilderness and
air-conditioned office building, must be filled in and smoothed over.
But with whose help?

Meantime, the American professors still languished in their cells, for
reasons unknown but guessed at. The guesses were then analyzed, as if
they were not guesses at all. The East accused the West, and the West
the East, as usual, of some dirty fingers in the small, but
“significant” pie.

“Jaylia, dear,” read Maggie aloud, on the following Tuesday morning.
“Share this with Maggie and William, and tell them, all over again, how
I am rejoicing over Saiph and how I bless them and theirs.

“I am happy to tell you that the foreign press is beginning to be
believed around these parts. After all, fifty million Frenchmen,
Britishers, Italians, Egyptians, Israelis, Indians, and who-have-we
can’t _all_ be wrong. So it is getting through, in spite of a great deal
of nonsense to the contrary, that Saiph is not only alive and well, but
in better health than he has been.

“For the rest, don’t worry too much. The Lion is the King of Beasts, as
usual. However, the aforesaid nonsense was (for nonsense) too consistent
and too evenly spread to have sprung up spontaneously. Somebody was
trying to use your secret departure. But who, ah, who?

“The one out front may have seemed to be that which drags behind. But
right from my little webby nest I could a tale unfold. Although I won’t,
until time untangles.

“Meanwhile, there, take care, let him heal, and when he is perfectly
strong, bring him home.

“Love. And love to all Tylers. Your devoted Alice.”

“Now really!” said Maggie in exasperation. “What on earth is to be made
of _most_ of that?”

“Oh, Mother loves to be cryptic.” Jaylia was smiling. She hesitated and
then added, “I suppose you may not know that Al Asad means The Lion?”

“Oh?” said Maggie. “Well, _that_ was clear enough anyhow.”

“Anything else, meaning what we may not know?” drawled the Judge,
cheerfully suspicious.

“Oh,” said Jaylia, “not much.” She laughed aloud. “My mother is
priceless. She is really priceless.”

“So she is, but does she know what she’s talking about? Or, I should
say, _not_ talking about, so that a lay person such as I am can figure
it out?” Maggie was sputtering.

“She has her methods,” said Jaylia mirthfully, “as she keeps saying.”

“Spiders it up, eh?” said Maggie, beginning to smile, too.

But the Judge thought that some news had been conveyed to Jaylia in the
letter that Jaylia considered none of their business. Still, whatever it
was, it was making Jaylia merry, so he fell in with the mood of gaiety
here at the breakfast table, intending later to do his duty and pass
along, for what they were worth, what on-the-spot observations he had
gleaned from Alice Foster’s letter. And so he did.

But the Judge was a shrewd old party, and inclined to persist. He
settled in his leather chair, with the fat unabridged dictionary before
him, and through its pages he pursued this and that. When referred, he
pursued the reference. At last he came to a certain definition and he,
too, laughed aloud.

He didn’t understand the news entirely, but the way it was put was
certainly amusing.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Tamsen had not been allowed in the hospital for several days. When she
appeared, on Wednesday, she found her little friend pale and obviously
still weak from the ordeal, but in good spirits, accepting life as
easily as death, and glad to see her. She sat beside him and, in order
to ask no effort of him, told him stories. When her hour was up, Saiph
promised her that he would be thinking up questions for tomorrow.

“And tomorrow and tomorrow,” she said, rejoicing.

“And when I am strong, I may go and see?” he said wistfully to the
window.

“I don’t know, Butch. _I’ll_ see you tomorrow.”

“O.K., old-timer,” Saiph said. “It’s a date.”

The guard on the door to the suite said to her urgently, “Mrs. Tyler,
maybe you better get on down there.”

She looked toward the elevators and recognized that there was an
argument of some sort going on. So she hurried.

“Mrs. Tyler,” said one of the guards, “is this man a Mr. Tyler? He
refuses to show identification.”

“Oh, yes,” she gasped. “Rufus, what are you doing here?”

“Just thought I’d come by and be neighborly,” said Rufus. “I don’t get
all _this_, believe me.” His face was red and his eyes were rolling. He
seemed to have a candy box under his arm.

“This is the Doctor’s brother,” Tamsen said.

“We have no instructions to let him pass,” the guard said, at the same
time.

“Oh, Rufus, you should have phoned,” she said. “You can’t see Saiph
today, I’m afraid. No visitors allowed.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” he said truculently.

“Let’s go down to the coffee shop and I’ll tell you.”

“I brought him a little present,” Rufus grumbled. “Just trying to be
. . .”

“No gifts,” said the guard sharply.

“That was awfully kind of you,” said Tamsen, “but please . . .”

“Well, we wanted to pay a little attention—being family.” Rufus looked
haughtily at the guard.

“Of course you did.” Tamsen was anxious to get him away. He had been in
enough trouble. The guards were bristling. “Come on downstairs with me,
Rufus, please?”

Rufus got into the elevator with her. “Say, who _are_ these men?” he
demanded.

“Oh, they are guards. Government people.”

“What for?”

“Well, that’s a very important little boy,” she said. “They can’t have
people bothering him.”

“No visitors?” He looked angry and suspicious. “Not a soul, eh?”

“Well, of course, when his mother comes, every morning and every
evening, sometimes Maggie or the Judge comes with her. But even Phillida
comes by only once in a long while, and she _never_ stays.”

“Duncan?”

“No, he _never_ comes.” (Duncan was minding his own business these
days.)

“But _you_ can get in, eh, Tamsen? You were in there with him?”

“Come on. Let’s have a coffee break and I’ll tell you. And you can tell
me how you’ve been, too. I haven’t seen you for so long.”

She led him into the coffee shop, where they took a small table. “You
see,” she said, when the coffee cups were before them, “Mitch asked me,
long ago, to come by and play with the little boy for an hour every day.
I’ve been doing that, ever since he got here. Today’s the first time
I’ve come, since surgery—but that’s my job. So that’s all about it. How
have _you_ been? But first, tell me, how is Lurlene?”

Tamsen hated coffee breaks, but she had settled herself to seem cozy,
and to please and comfort him, if possible.

“She’s fine.” Rufus had a changed look. Perhaps he had not been feeling
well. Tamsen dimly remembered Lurlene having said something to this
effect. His face looked thinner. Now that the flush of anger had
receded, he looked pale.

“And you’ve been keeping well and busy?” she said.

“Oh, yes. I’ve been fairly busy.” He smiled, not at her, but at the
table top. “Doing some homework. Research, you could say.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Yes, it . . . uh . . . keeps me busy. So that’s a very important little
boy, eh?” He sucked in coffee. “I guess so.”

“All little boys are very important,” said Tamsen sentimentally. “This
one happens to be—well, you could say—in the spotlight of history,
poor child.”

“We . . . uh . . . This happens to be homemade candy.” Rufus smacked the
pound box he had before him on the table. “All kids like candy, we
thought.”

“Wasn’t it good of Lurlene to go to the trouble,” said Tamsen in her
soft voice.

Rufus was staring at her as if she had startled him.

“Oh, I’m sure you _will_ meet Saiph, before he goes home again,” she
comforted.

“How soon will that be?” He pulled himself up.

“The Doctor hasn’t told us. I suppose it depends on lots of things.”

“They’d have blamed _me_, you know,” said Rufus in tones curiously too
flat and dull for the meaning of his words.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s all been forgotten.” Tamsen, who herself had
forgiven and almost forgotten, was quick to cast backwards. “Don’t you
agree, it is obvious now that something was going to be troublesome in
Alalaf, sooner or later, no matter what?”

“The old King should step down,” Rufus said, eyeing her craftily.

“Do you think so?” she murmured. “I don’t know very much about Al Asad.”

“But a little kid can’t rule the country,” Rufus continued didactically.
“This Dhanab might. He’s got modern ideas.”

“Has he?” Tamsen kept her eyes lowered, because she couldn’t believe
that Rufus was an authority. Yet she felt he needed her respectful
attention. “You don’t think he is dead, then?”

“No, no,” said Rufus, expanding. “No, no, he’s lying low, choosing the
right time, consolidating his support.”

“I see,” she said softly. “I didn’t know.”

But when he said no more, she looked up and caught the anger on his
face.

“You have made a study of it, haven’t you?” she said. “More than I have,
surely.” She forced herself to a belief in what she was saying. It might
be so.

He said, “Say, Tamsen, you go up and see this boy every day? Your job,
you say? Why couldn’t you take him his present?”

“Oh, I wish I could,” she said, “but it wouldn’t be permitted, really.”
Tamsen tried to soften this. “He has to keep to a very strict diet, for
one thing. It would have to be doctor’s orders. Why don’t you talk to
Mitch, and see when he thinks you could come by and meet Saiph? Next
week, possibly?”

He was moving his jaw in an odd way from side to side, without opening
his mouth at all.

“I might do that,” he said in a moment. “Say, uh . . .” His brows rode
up, his eyes popped. “Why don’t you take the candy home, then, Tamsen?
Somebody might as well enjoy it.” Bright idea? his expression was
asking.

She thought, I simply must not reject him again. He has been rejected
just too many times. “Why, thank you very much, Rufus,” she said,
summoning enthusiasm. “That’s awfully kind. May I, really?”

“Do that.” He nodded and got up, bumbling and striking his thigh against
the table.

“Are you all right?” she said. It occurred to her that he might be
feeling dizzy.

“Fine,” he said absently. “Fine.” He didn’t thank her for the coffee,
although she had been the quicker to produce the money. Instead, he left
her abruptly, went out and started down the corridor toward the street.

Tamsen followed in a moment and turned the other way, toward the parking
lot, the box of candy in her hand. It seemed to her to be a pathetic
object. It was also, for her, an object to which clung an aura of
inexplicable loathsomeness. There was a porter in a blue coverall
hauling a very large wastebasket toward the back of the building. Tamsen
slipped the candy box into the trash. “A little contribution. O.K.?” she
said to the man, who grinned and went on.

Tamsen herself went on, feeling relieved, yet puzzled and faintly
alarmed, and trying to track down a reason for all these feelings. Then
she heard him calling her name and she let the glass door settle without
going through it. “Oh? Yes? Rufus?”

“I changed my mind,” he said gruffly.

“What?”

“I’ll just take that candy. I’m sure you don’t care that much.”

“Oh, but . . .” She swallowed. She was caught and no way out. Nothing
she could do.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I . . . Rufus, I was very grateful for the
thought, but I never do eat candy. And Duncan’s off sweets.”

“Where is it?” He brushed all else aside.

“Well, I . . .”

“What did you do with it? You gave it to somebody,” he roared. “Some
‘nothing’ kind of menial, I suppose?”

“No, no,” she said, feeling terrified. “I put it in the trash.”

He stared at her. His full lips began to smile saucily. “Now, wasn’t
that,” he said, “a stinking lousy thing for you to do?”

“Yes, it was,” she said valiantly. “I didn’t want to hurt your
feelings.”

“You _are_ a phony, aren’t you?” he said, as if this statement had been
made and was now ratified. “You don’t count, though,” he said thickly.
He looked for a second as if he were going to cry. Then he turned and
walked away, staggering slightly.

Tamsen went outside, staggering a little herself. Oh, she was thinking,
oh, what I just did to him! Me and my famous old tender heart! Rejected
him, just like everybody else, but _I_ had to go and lie about it. And
make it twenty times as bad! I see. Do I? Do I begin to see what Duncan
means about me?

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan sipped his cocktail and listened to his wife explain herself. “I
begin to see,” she was saying earnestly. She was pretty cute, he
thought, when she curled up and turned her delicate face to him and
spoke so earnestly. “I always feel that I ought to be kind. I ought
_never_ to hurt a human person’s feelings. So, if I think the truth is
going to hurt I’ll soften it. So the result is, I just don’t tell the
truth, do I?”

“Let’s not get carried away, here,” he said with amusement. “I wouldn’t
call you a dishonest woman.”

“But I am,” she said, “and I’ve even thought I was right to be. Now I
see it may be kinder to tell the truth.”

“Well, it’s safer,” he teased her. “That way you don’t get caught
telling pretty lies.”

“Yes, I got caught,” she said soberly. “The point is, not to let it
happen again. Wouldn’t _you_ say?”

He laughed and embraced her. He thought it was all very well for Tamsen
to have had an insight into some of her ways. But it was just her
combination of delicate conscience, dear gentle heart, and unexpected
humor about both, that he loved, even when the combination sometimes led
her where she didn’t always see herself going.

“I guess I’d better brace myself,” he announced, “to have the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, hurled into my teeth at all
times. Do I deserve this?”

“Oh, well, let’s not get carried away,” she said, and Duncan felt
content.

When, hours later, he looked up from his book to the clock and found his
instinct to have been right (it was bedtime), he saw Tamsen on the couch
over there, motionless, with one foot under her, evidently in a trance
of thought. He had a telepathic flash.

“So _why_ did you put a gift box in the trash?” he said quietly.

“Because the candy was poisoned,” Tamsen said.

“Oh, honey, honey.” Duncan was much alarmed. He was alarmed for her. He
thought, She can’t forgive herself for hurting my brother’s feelings,
for having been so carelessly rude, against all her principles, so she
is dreaming up a better reason. And this ain’t good! “Just forget it,
why don’t you?” he begged.

Tamsen seemed to wake and blink. “Did I _say_ that?”

“I wish you hadn’t.”

“I suppose I’d . . . better not spare your feelings?”

“No,” he said tenderly.

“All right. I think Rufus is in a bad state. I think he is mentally ill.
I think he had it in mind . . .”

“Go on.” Duncan wasn’t being reassured.

“To poison Prince Saiph.”

“Well!” said Duncan, faking objectivity. “That’s a mouthful. For what on
earth reason would Rufus want to poison Prince Saiph?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Duncan himself could not imagine any reason. Rufus? All right, Rufus
might not have the most brilliant mind in the world, and Rufus might, on
occasion, feel discouraged not to have found a talent in himself that he
knew how or where to employ, but Rufus was (although bumbling) an
amiable soul. There was no meanness in him. Nothing vicious. Why should
there be? He was beloved. He belonged.

No, no, the problem here was Tamsen.

“But he couldn’t manage, eh? So he figured to assassinate you instead?
Just while he was up, eh?” Duncan _might_ reduce this to absurdity.

“He does hate me, in particular.” She seemed serious.

“I should think,” said Duncan carefully, becoming more or less serious
himself, “that if _I_ had given somebody a gift, and been prettily
thanked, and then found out that she had quickly thrown it in the trash,
_I_ would be somewhat annoyed.”

“No, that’s backwards.”

Duncan began to feel like shaking her. He said, “But he did think better
of it? He did decide _not_ to poison you today? How does that go,
again?”

“He stopped to think, and I didn’t count,” said Tamsen.

“Honey, honey—” Duncan went to her and took her hands and looked into
her eyes, those brilliant eyes. “I don’t think it’s very good for you to
go there every day, with all those Secret Service monkeyshines, and all
that suspicious protective stuff. You have too much imagination. You’re
too suggestible.”

“Oh, don’t,” she said. “If you think I’m crazy, just say so. I’d be very
glad to know it.”

“Not crazy. That doesn’t mean anything. See here, can you get hold of
that candy? Have it analyzed? Prove something?”

“I doubt it exists. It went to be burned.”

“Nobody would have retrieved it, and eaten any?”

“Nobody eats the trash, in a hospital.”

“Then you can’t prove it?”

“Of course not. If I could prove it, I might know what to do.”

“Do you even believe it?” he asked gently.

“But it’s not _like_ believing. It’s more like knowing.”

“Honey,” he said, “could you possibly try to take it, right on your
little old chin? Try this on, for size?”

“All right,” she said trustingly.

“_You_ don’t like _Rufus_. I won’t say you ‘hate’ him. But you loathed
the idea of putting his nasty old homemade candy, full of fingerprints
and all, into your dainty mouth.”

She was hit. She winced. He saw it.

“So you threw it where you ‘felt’ it belonged. But you got caught. And
you don’t like the looks of yourself in this matter very much. You’d
rather see yourself ‘forever kind.’ You wouldn’t mind one bit, if you
had a better reason to have done what you did. Do you think this is
possible?”

She took it. Her chin quivered only a little.

“I’ll agree it was an irrational act. And to say such things, to think
such things now, is not rational, either.”

Duncan, however, got the message. “Intuitional, eh? O.K. Even if you are
right, I wouldn’t fret. Rufus is too . . . well, we’ll have to say it
. . . too dumb to pull it off. Would you know, for instance, _how_ to
poison a batch of candy? With what? Believe me, _I_ don’t know. And
Saiph never would have the chance to put it in his mouth. It wouldn’t
have got to him. Nothing happened. Nothing will. Sweetheart, let it
rest? Your intuition could be wrong.”

“Oh, Lord, I can be just as wrong as anybody else,” she sighed. “But I
don’t think Rufus is well. I really don’t.”

“That much,” he said, “I’ll take from your intuition. You may very well
be right. Trouble is, I’m not the doctor.”


                                   11

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the Doctor said. “Haven’t seen Rufus myself
since the big night at Maggie’s. Which was a while ago.”

He sat behind his desk, courteously relaxed, but Tamsen knew she had
been squeezed in between appointments; she must not linger.

“I hadn’t seen him again either, until yesterday,” she said. “And it
struck me so . . . well, so urgently . . . how he has changed. Duncan
says _he’s_ not the doctor. Neither of us—or anyhow _I_ don’t—know
what to do.”

Mitchel Tyler smiled at her. “Neither am I the doctor, in this case.
What about Lurlene. Is she concerned?”

“I don’t know. She may be. I can’t, you see, just go there and be
direct. I’m pretty much off on the wrong foot with both of them. The
trouble with me is, I busybody too much,” said Tamsen miserably, “just
as I’m doing right now.”

“How about Maggie and the Judge? I suppose they are entitled to go and
be direct.” The Doctor cocked his head. “Why isn’t it good of you,
Tamsen, to take notice and be concerned?”

“No, that’s my failing,” she said. “I am, believe me, an _awful_
nuisance, to myself, too.”

“We’re very fond of him, you know,” the Doctor said, his fine hands
playing with a pencil. “But it may be true that the rest of us become so
engrossed, so meshed into our own marching affairs, that we never do
find time to stop and hold his hand.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t hold his hand,” she said promptly. “It’s only that
he scared me. You see . . .” She had not told Mitch about the box of
candy. She was tempted to do so now. But the Doctor had made one
involuntary restless motion of his hand, so she rose. “No. I certainly
mustn’t hang around and ask you to hold _my_ hand.”

“Then I’ll say thanks for alerting me.” He rose and was smiling.

“Thanks for letting me in.”

“Aren’t you on my staff?” He walked with her to the door. “How did you
find Saiph today?”

“Oh, he’s making leaps and bounds.” It struck her as absurd that she
should be telling the Doctor. “Isn’t he?” she challenged.

“He should make very rapid progress from here on,” Mitch said, with
obvious pleasure. “No use saying ‘Don’t worry about Rufus.’ The most
ineffective advice in the world, eh? But I’ll give him the hard eye,
next time I see him.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

And you can’t ask fairer than that, thought Tamsen in her car. She felt
that she had made enough of an intrusion, without burdening the busy man
with her “irrational” details. Mitch is decisive, she thought with
admiration. He says he will cast a hard eye, and he will.

Well, then, she had done it. Duncan had approved. He seemed to think it
was not too unreasonable a thing, for her to talk to Mitch about his
brother. It was supposed to be off _her_ mind, now. Maybe that was what
Duncan had approved.

Of course, Mitch wouldn’t _hurry_.

Tamsen found her car to be turning the other way from home.

                 *        *        *        *        *

There was a guard on the entrance to the grounds in San Marino, but
Tamsen was let through at once. Sam, who opened the door, told her that
Mrs. Tyler was out. The Judge was out, also. But the Princess was on the
pool deck, if Mrs. Duncan would like to come on through?

So Tamsen went on through the house and out at the other side, asking
herself why she had been cursed by this compulsion to be so torn between
duty and fear-to-offend, between heart and conscience, and always
guilty, either way. Always torn, and never decisive, and unable to mind
her own business. How could she, the youngest and newest Tyler wife, go
to Maggie and say that Maggie’s second son was, in her opinion, losing
his mind? On the other hand, how could she refrain from mentioning, to
another mother, that _her_ son might be in danger from an unsuspected
quarter? Yet how could she, a Tyler, tell an outsider that a Tyler was a
potential madman? On the other hand, if she did not tell _somebody_
. . .

But she had.

She drifted across the terraces and down the steps to the pool deck
where Jaylia, in two scraps of white, was lying on a long white chaise,
her flesh oiled to receive the sun.

“Tamsen! How nice to see you! Come and sit down. How is my child?”

Tamsen sat down on a white-webbed chair, in a spot dappled with shade.
“Oh, just since yesterday,” she said, “his energy has been seeping back.
You can see it coming in, like the tide.”

“I thought so, too, this morning,” said Jaylia, yanking at the mechanism
of her chaise to pull up the back and be able to sit, rather than lie.
She was a pleasant color, Tamsen thought, the shade of a lightly browned
biscuit. Her teeth seemed very white when she smiled.

“How am I going to thank you?” the Princess exclaimed. “It’s
Tamsen-this, and Tamsen-that, when I am there. He is just delighted with
you.”

“Likewise, I am sure,” said Tamsen happily.

“But this must be taking too much time away from your work. Your poor
neglected paintings.”

“They’ll be the better for it,” said Tamsen, her heart warming
wonderfully, to her surprise.

“I wish I could come and see what you are up to. But I can’t very well
go running around.” Jaylia sighed. “I’m out of the habit, you know,
anyway. I may have forgotten _how_ to drive a car.” She had her chair
and knees adjusted now. “Maggie’s off shopping. The Judge had an
appointment. But here I am.”

“Tell me,” said Tamsen. “Saiph wouldn’t . . . He wouldn’t, for instance,
take candy from a stranger? Would he, Jaylia? It worries me sometimes.”

“Does it?” said Jaylia. “Yes, I see it does.”

“But it doesn’t worry you?”

“I suppose it must. Although I’m so used to it, I forget. Oh, yes, Saiph
understands that _he_ must always be especially cautious. Is that what
you mean?”

“He is so young.”

“Ah,”—-Jaylia stretched and spoke softly—“but he will grow up, now.”

Tamsen had been, ever since the morning in the hospital, seeing this
woman in a new light. Now there was full sun. Jaylia, here (half-naked,
American fashion) in Maggie’s garden, seemed to have put off that
allure, or whatever it was. Because there were no men around? No,
thought Tamsen, maybe not. Jaylia looked, today, like a normal healthy
young woman, a little too well-padded, but attractive, and friendly and
easy and also (as a woman ought to be) a loving woman.

“I think,” Jaylia was saying, “there must be different . . . um . . .
call them life-styles?”

“Explain that some more,” said Tamsen, feeling friendly and easy, and
sinking back.

“I suppose _I_ always did enjoy a spot of danger,” Jaylia mused. “When I
married, I moved into all this sort of thing. The peril, the swarms of
protectors, the constant wariness, and the obligation to _take_ chances,
too. Saiph has never known anything else. Of course, it is a style of
living that some people could not bear.”

“I certainly couldn’t,” Tamsen said, with conviction.

“Your husband couldn’t, either,” said the Princess, gazing afar.

Tamsen was brushed by the wing of a resentful suspicion. Here! Here! Was
Jaylia telling Tamsen that she was welcome to her own husband? But then
Jaylia laughed.

“I was thinking that, of all of you Tylers, perhaps Mitch wouldn’t mind
the cold-blooded risk-taking. But oh, how he would be bored by all the
pussy-footing!”

So Tamsen had to smile. “You haven’t met,” she said in a moment, seeing
her opening, “the other son, Rufus?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jaylia. “He was here, day before yesterday. Maggie gave
us sandwiches and salads.”

“Oh,” said Tamsen, enlightened. “Oh, then maybe I understand how come he
was so knowledgeable about Alalaf yesterday.”

“He does read the papers rather diligently,” said Jaylia, very
innocently. “Yesterday?”

“Rufus came to the hospital. He meant to call on Saiph. But, of course,
he wasn’t let.”

“I see,” said Jaylia. “A reciprocal gesture. Because Maggie . . . Oh
now, come, come. I shouldn’t be gossiping about the Tylers. God knows
what I owe them.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t, either,” Tamsen said, “having become one of
them. But I’ll bet you it was olive-branchy? Maggie _would_ make some
such gesture, bless her.”

“She would, wouldn’t she?” said Jaylia warmly. “Poor man, he brought
down so much wrath upon his head.”

“Did you . . .” But Tamsen could not say “think he seemed crazy?” . . .
“meet Lurlene, too?” she substituted.

“No, she wasn’t here. We discussed Alalaf.” Jaylia leaned back.
“Although _I_ can’t really do that. It is too different. It isn’t
anything like this. Not _anything_. Aljedi and I spent most of a year in
Europe, you see. I have only begun to try to understand.”

“You live there now, all year?”

“My son lives there,” said Jaylia. “My son is not an American little
boy.”

“No, but he is a darling, and I adore him,” said Tamsen flatly.

“Yes,” said Jaylia, “everybody does. But I don’t think you, or any other
American, even including me, can ever really know some very deep part of
his mind, or anticipate exactly how Saiph will react.”

“Is he like his father, then?”

“Somewhat. Somewhat,” said Jaylia restlessly.

Tamsen said intuitively, “_I_ think you’re homesick for Alalaf.”

“How did you know?” said Jaylia. “This is so lovely, so comfortable, so
free, and so safe. And here I am, beginning to feel as restless as a—as
a snake!”

Tamsen laughed. “This is all you say. It just doesn’t happen to be
_your_ life-style.”

“No.” Jaylia was glowing with the pleasure of having been understood.
“Saiph is restless, too. Locked up in those four walls. We are going to
bring him here, very soon. That should be helpful.”

“Here?” Tamsen felt alarm. “But is this safe enough?”

“Why, it should be easier. After all, this is not a public building.
Besides, they can’t allow him the solarium. Here, he can have the sun.
Ah, but _you_ must keep on coming, Tamsen, or he won’t like it at all. I
warn you, he is capable of assuming that you belong to him.”

“He may be right,” said Tamsen solemnly. “I am going to have a fit of
noble proportions when he goes away home.”

Jaylia moved her head slightly, in sympathy, but said nothing.

“I’d better go home, _now_.” Tamsen rose, and the Princess rose, draped
herself in a towel, and led her through the house, chatting all the way.
Tamsen simply could not help liking this girl. The Princess, towel-clad,
stood on the front portico to wave her off, as if they had been old
chums.

Maggie’s car was coming in. “Oh, Tamsen,” said Maggie, driver-to-driver,
as they paused on opposite paths, “I’ve been shopping all afternoon with
Lurlene. You’re not leaving?”

“I must feed a husband. I’ve had a lovely time with Jaylia.”

“Oh, good, then,” Maggie approved. “_Hasta la vista._”

Tamsen drove on, feeling humble and happy. Maggie was doing the healing
things, of course. Tamsen really need not shoulder the whole world, at
her age.

The truth was, Duncan was not for Jaylia, and Jaylia was not for Duncan,
and they knew it very well. And Tamsen knew it, too.


                                   12

There had been a cooling off, or at least a scarcity of news, in Alalaf.
Affairs there had either stabilized or were straining in an impasse.
Reports that nothing was known to have changed faded to small inside
paragraphs, if any. And the Little Prince, being out of danger, was no
fun anymore, either.

When they moved Saiph, on the following Thursday, quietly by ambulance
and rather late at night—the two guards riding with him, as hidden as
he, and no sirens wailing—there was nobody lurking about whose business
it was to notice anything odd.

Saiph was delighted with his new quarters. He sat up in the four-poster
in the guest room over the east wing and poured out questions about the
customs of the natives, as typified in an authentic native dwelling.
Jaylia and her maid continued to inhabit the west wing. Inga had a bed
in the spacious dressing room, off Saiph’s room, built back-to-back with
the Judge’s similar arrangement. Maggie solved the problem of the two
guards by charming those lately much relaxed young men into agreeing
with her. One of them was stationed under Saiph’s window and balcony.
The other was at the bottom of the back stairs. If and when they wished
to sleep, there were beds for them over the garage.

After all, Secret Service men were not only on the front door, but all
around the perimeter of the property.

So the establishment settled down to be a fortress in which to entertain
and enjoy their convalescing guest. Only Tylers came in and out: the
Doctor, often; Phillida, from time to time; Duncan, only now and then.
Tamsen made the long drive every day.

She had set aside her worries about Rufus. She had no time for them,
anyway. Saiph was frisky as a squirrel. Soon, soon, he would be going
home. There had been no softening assurances that Tamsen must, of
course, go there to visit him. No one had been cruel enough to pretend
that this would ever happen.

“_I_ have got to have a baby!” she concluded. “A boy. A girl. _Two_ of
each. _Lots_ of babies!”

Duncan said he agreed, but whoa . . . one step at a time, did she mind?
After all, a poor schoolteacher, he. They mustn’t forget that every
darned one of those babies would, one day, need a college education.
They should figure for future financial breathing spaces. He was only
half kidding, and she knew it. He and I, Tamsen thought, have the _same_
life-style, by gosh!

                 *        *        *        *        *

When somebody made the discovery, three days later, that the boy was no
longer in the hospital, there was a bit of a flurry. _Boy Prince
spirited away._ The Judge shut this up firmly by stating the truth to
the press at once. The house endured a brief siege, and then this flurry
died away.

Lurlene saw it in the paper. “You see this, Rufus?”

Rufus had seen it.

“Yah, _we_ get to read it in the paper,” she grumbled. “I guess little
old Tamsen gets in.”

“I could get in,” he muttered.

“That’s right,” said Lurlene bitterly. “We are her children. We’re
welcome, and always will be. Nyah! Nyah! Nyah!”

Shopping with Maggie the other day had practically given Lurlene the
jitters. While Maggie had bought (with the back of her hand, like) three
different costumes for herself, very sure of which would suit, Lurlene
had finally bought one suit for fall. And when she got it home it didn’t
do a thing for her. Lurlene felt she had been brainwashed, or something.
So O.K., it was real nice of Maggie. So O.K. So what?

She got up and went into another room. Rufus had a new toy. He didn’t
know she knew about it. She didn’t want to know about it officially. She
was thinking now—and nobody could say she didn’t try to be
understanding and all—that Rufus might feel like playing with it this
minute.

Sometimes she didn’t want to stay in the room with him, these days.

Well, she felt sorry for him. God knows, she felt sorry. You could say
one thing, he wasn’t any chaser. He was hers alone. But honestly, I
mean, how sorry can you feel? she thought. Rufus could be damned
stubborn, and that wasn’t _her_ fault. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t
want to let her baby him, or anything. Or get out of here, for instance,
and go someplace else where his folks couldn’t bug him, if that was what
was bugging him. Well, O.K. God knows she had tried. She would have
liked to be sure how much insurance he was carrying (she forgot) but she
was too superstitious to ask anybody, right out. Besides, it might not
look so good—some day.

She stood at her sink and she thought, Tragedy! Here we got tragedy! And
his own folks paying more attention to some kid, that’s nothing but a
foreigner.

It didn’t occur to her that she might have said something to Maggie
about what strange thoughts she kept thinking these days. _They_ didn’t
tell _her_ one damn thing anymore, did they? Well, could be they’d feel
sorry for that before too long.

Rufus’ new toy was a gun. Lurlene didn’t know exactly what he was
figuring to do with it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

On Monday burst the headline. AL ASAD TO L. A.

Then followed the speculations. The King is coming! What does this
_mean_? Is he flying into voluntary exile? Is he, in effect, abdicating?
Will the mysterious Dhanab appear and take over? Or has the military
given notice? What, then, of the Prince?

Or, must a suspicious old ignoramus see with his own eyes the fact of
his grandson’s good health and kind treatment in the U. S. A.? Must he
carry back his eyewitness account to stop the flow of the deep-running
rumors still current underground? (The boy is dead. The boy is lost. The
boy will never return.) Did the King himself half believe these legends?

The King was deep. The King was narrow. The King was driven. The King
was driving. The King had a political ax to grind. The boy was an
excuse. The King was coming.

The visit was a Good Thing, because Al Asad must succumb, at once, to
the obvious superiority of the American way. The Russians wouldn’t like
it if he did. The Egyptians wouldn’t like it, either. The Americans
wouldn’t like it, if he didn’t. What were the Communists going to think?

The King was presumptuous. Twenty-eight American professors were not out
of his jail yet. There would be a strain put upon those responsible for
his safety. Everybody knows that L. A. is full of fanatics. The King
must have a strong reason for putting his royal foot into such a city.
Placards were being printed already, rumor said, for some impassioned
pickets.

Could a Head-of-State be denied entrance? Protocol? Would the White
House send a greeter? Courtesy? Yes. No. Maybe. Alalaf was too tiny to
matter much. Alalaf was a symbol, of great importance, because it _was_
so tiny.

Duncan was sputtering away one morning. “Why doesn’t it occur to anybody
that an old man just might feel like paying a sick-call on his only
grandson? The King has got the money. He can spare the two days. The
box-boy at the market can take a little trip, if he’s got the money and
can spare the time. Why must deep and devious motives always be
suspected and analyzed, and re-analyzed? Why do we keep on trying to
figure out what the Communists are going to think, if they were to think
that _we_ thought _they_ thought. . . . This world is getting so damned
foxy you can’t draw a simple breath. Whew! Why don’t we figure out what
_we_ think, period?”

Tamsen was laughing at him. “Al Asad is stuck with his own life-style,”
she told him. “By the way, what _do_ we think?”

“Damned if I know,” Duncan confessed. “But that old rascal is up to
something.”

Then they both laughed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Judge said, “Maggie, darling, do you know what I think?”

“No, dear. Not at the moment.”

“Let me see. His Majesty arrives early in the morning, on Wednesday. He
goes, with entourage, to the hotel, I suppose, first. Then we can expect
him here to see Saiph.”

“Yes,” said Maggie. “I agree that this should be top priority.” She was
looking mischievously solemn.

“And he flies off again, or so we understand, on the following noon.
Which leaves . . .”

“Yes?”

“Wednesday evening. I think that perhaps we should entertain on
Wednesday evening with a small reception. Or a medium-sized reception. A
very select group of people.”

“Oh, do you, William?” she said with wifely respect. He wasn’t fooling
her, of course.

“I think,” the Judge continued, “you ought to ask a dozen or more of the
very strongest egos in show business.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, people much too busy at projecting their own images to notice
certain other quiet guests, whom I shall invite, if you don’t mind,
dear?”

“The peacocks?” Maggie said. “I’m sure I can produce a dozen or more
from the neighboring hills. And incur the undying enmity of some
others.”

“In a good cause.”

“I’m sure. But will the _King_ like the idea?”

“We shall ask him,” the Judge said, who privately expected the King to
like it very much. “Now, do you suppose it is possible to invite these
guests on the contingency that the King will agree? If not, no party?”

“I should certainly think that to be quite possible.” She was serene.
“It won’t matter if there is no party. The _invitation_ will be the
prestigious thing.” Multisyllabic words, with equally suitable double
meanings, wouldn’t melt in Maggie’s mouth.

The Judge patted her. He couldn’t help it. “It should be one of those
very formal, strutting, all-dressed-up and showing-off parties, where
nobody sits down.”

“Like a pavanne,” mused Maggie. “Of course, William. But the peacocks
will tell the newspapers,” she warned him. “It is inherent in their
natures.”

“Yes, I know,” the Judge said. “But there is no way to prevent
publicity. The King won’t blink an eye without someone assessing the
dire significance.” The Judge chuckled. “We shall not, of course, ask
for publicity. In fact, we shall mildly deplore it. From modesty.”

“Of course,” chimed Maggie.

“So we shall attract it.”

“And we shall saw the lady in half, before their very eyes,” said Maggie
merrily.


                                   13

On Monday morning the house was in a mild frenzy of preparation.
Everyone (except the Judge, who was off conferring somewhere) was very
busy. Kasim was in the pantry, having volunteered to “lift things down.”
Hayyan, although within clear sight of his small master, was helping the
gardener with the back lawn. Sam was washing acres of windows.
Phillida’s Chloe, who was on loan for the duration, was being taught by
Hilde “where things were,” since all refreshment was to be produced from
this kitchen, without benefit of catering.

Maggie and Jaylia were sitting in the lanai, discussing the King’s
tastes. He would drink nothing at all, Jaylia warned, and he most
probably would not eat, either. But there were certain foods that might
be offensive in his very nostrils. And, of course, alcohol . . .

“Oh, dear!” Maggie explained that this reception would follow the
pattern of a cocktail party, simply because this was the only kind of
party the natives really understood. But if it must be a cocktail party,
without any alcohol, Maggie anticipated much drunkenness.

Jaylia was looking amused, but puzzled, when Sam came away from his
tasks to announce that the guards had just let Mrs. Rufus Tyler through.

“Oh, have they?” Maggie went to greet Lurlene.

Lurlene said at once, apologetically, “Gee, Maggie, I guess you’re
awfully, awfully busy.”

“We are busy,” agreed Maggie, “but not ‘awfully.’ Come on back. I don’t
think you have met Jaylia, have you, dear?”

Lurlene had put on her new fall suit, the one Maggie had helped her
choose. She followed Maggie into the lanai and looked around for this
princess. There was a young woman sitting there whose golden legs were
bare below a pair of white shorts, whose blondish hair was wound in
careless profusion around her head. Lurlene found herself being
presented, and was compelled to bridle and gawk. She managed to recover
and produce her politeness, hold out her hand, and say, “Well, I’m
certainly glad to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” The hand in
her own was cool, and only briefly there.

“You must excuse my costume,” said Jaylia, “but Aunt Maggie is an
absolute slavedriver. It’s work, work, work, all the time, around here.”

Lurlene, still inclined to gawk, could not find one word in her mouth to
say to this. She blinked and looked away, out to the terraces. “Oh,” she
craned her neck. “Is that the Little Prince?”

They had set Saiph out in the sun to toast. Oiled and martyred, he was
lying on his back, his eyes closed. Inga sat beside him, reading aloud.

“Would you like to come and meet my little boy?” Jaylia said. She slid
the screen without waiting for an answer. Lurlene followed her.

“Saiph, here is another Mrs. Tyler.”

Saiph dragged up lazy lids.

“Say, I’m certainly glad to meet you,” blurted Lurlene. “I’ve heard so
much about you.”

This was a remark that suggested no reply. Saiph made none. He smiled,
sleepily. Inga’s voice had politely stopped. Lurlene felt lost. She felt
as if she were on some kind of spot. She turned her head, and there
stood this foreign-looking fellow, leaning on a bamboo rake, his
brilliant eyes just practically glaring at her. Much startled, she
turned, saying, “Listen, I don’t want to bother anybody, honestly. You
go ahead, whatever you were doing.” She went blundering back into the
house.

Maggie, who was wearing a comfortable-looking pale cotton frock, sat at
a card table with lists before her and a pencil touching her lips. She
looked up and smiled. “Isn’t he a charming little fellow?”

“He sure is,” gushed Lurlene, thinking to herself, What’s so charming?
Just a skinny little kid who thinks he’s so great he don’t even have to
say “hello” to common people.

Maggie said, “That does look well on you, Lurlene.”

So? She had noticed what Lurlene had on. (_Finally_, thought Lurlene,
soured by her own awkwardness.) “Well, that’s one reason . . .” she
began craftily.

“Sit down, dear.”

Lurlene sat down and the dumb skirt hiked up. She tugged at it. So she
had a little extra on her hips. So what? “I just happened to be coming
over this way,” she said nervously, “so I thought, Why don’t I go and
ask Maggie? I mean, what are we supposed to wear? I mean, to the
reception for this king? I mean, I thought to myself, why don’t I ask
Maggie?”

Jaylia’s lazy voice said behind her, “_Black_ tie, isn’t it, Maggie?”

Lurlene jumped. She didn’t know whether she ought to stand up when a
princess came in or not. This character didn’t look anything like a
princess to Lurlene. But Jaylia slid into another chair at the card
table, and wound those bare legs around each other.

“Isn’t it ridiculous?” sighed Maggie. “But William says some of the men
will be more comfortable.” (Less conspicuous on the streets, had been
the Judge’s thought.) “And if, as a free people, we chose to array
ourselves improperly, this must be taken as symbolic of our
independence. So, there being no dinner, the men will wear dinner
jackets. Tell Rufus, dear.” She smiled at Lurlene. “Let me see, the
ladies? Hm, I should think a long dress. Not too dec . . . not too low
at the top, mind. Not too voluminous, either. Narrow, don’t you think?
Something . . . oh . . . rather simple. Dark perhaps? After all, if
summer comes, can fall be far behind?”

Lurlene was swallowing hard. It was O.K. They were invited.

“_I’m_ not wearing dark, Maggie,” Jaylia said, looking mischievous.

“_You_,” said Maggie severely, “are living out of eleven suitcases and
will, I’m sure, be forgiven. I wonder, Lurlene . . . Had you thought of
consulting Phillida? She’s good at clothes.”

“Well, I . . . no . . .” (Lurlene darn well wasn’t going to consult
Phillida, the big old ex-dress designer.) “I thought I’d rather ask
_you_, Maggie.” Lurlene fawned. She couldn’t help it. She was nervous.
“Oh, say, what time? I mean, when are we supposed to come? Wednesday
night, right?”

“We are not quite sure yet,” said Maggie pleasantly. “It will depend on
His Majesty’s wishes. And, of course, you realize that if he does not
want a reception, there won’t _be_ a reception?”

“Oh, well, sure.”

“Why don’t you and Rufus plan to come along a bit ahead of
whatever-the-hour-turns-out-to-be?” said Maggie kindly. “Being family,
you can chat with our earlier guests. By the way, Jaylia dear, I keep
forgetting to ask you. Will the King speak English?”

“You have used the exact word,” said Jaylia good-naturedly. “He will, if
he so wills. He can. But he may or he may not. Sometimes he isn’t in the
mood.”

“_He_ won’t, I suppose, wear black tie?” said Maggie, amused.

“Al Asad never wears Western dress.”

Lurlene was being stricken by panic. It crossed her mind that anybody
was crazy to expect that this king might show up in cowboy boots! What!
He ought to know better than that. But what would you _say_ to a king
who might speak English if he felt like it? She said, “Oh, I wouldn’t
know what to say, you know. We just . . . we just kinda want to come and
sit in a corner.”

“Mind your shoes,” said Jaylia carelessly. “Nobody gets to sit down.”

“Oh, well, I see, I’m sure.” Lurlene was scarlet. Didn’t this princess
figure that Lurlene knew better than to sit down, if some king should be
standing up? Lurlene was feeling most uncomfortably warm. The new suit
was too heavy for the temperature of the day. She didn’t even feel like
herself in it. _She_ didn’t even want to come to the dumb party. This
was all for Rufus’ sake, because ever since he read about it on the
society page he’d been looking in the mailbox or waiting for the phone
to ring. Lurlene was now giving Jaylia a black look.

Maggie said easily, “There was a friendly warning. Not that it will do a
bit of good. Every woman will have on her feet some brand-new, matching
shoes that will inevitably be killing her.”

Yah! thought Lurlene, a flash of grim joy going through her. She got up.
She had to get out of here. “Listen, I certainly don’t want to bother
anybody. I got to run along anyhow. Thanks a lot. And say, I was very
happy to meet you . . . uh . . .” Lurlene didn’t know _what_ to call the
woman. “Excuse me?” she finished.

Maggie got up and accompanied her to the front door, although Lurlene
protested. When the door had opened Maggie said soothingly, “Don’t fuss
too much, Lurlene. It won’t be a long gathering. It will be very quiet,
just people standing around and, for the most part, saying absolutely
nothing of any importance.”

Yah! That’s what _you_ think! thought Lurlene. “It’ll be a wonderful
experience,” she said lamely, and went away.

When Maggie came back, Jaylia said with a puzzled look, “Did I offend
her?”

“No, no,” said Maggie absently. Then, pencil poised, she looked far away
and said, “Lurlene is no more flustered than the majority of our guests
will be pretending not to be.”

Jaylia leaned back and stretched her torso, catlike. She said, softly,
“Have I told you lately, Maggie darling, that I think you are a bit of a
darling?”

“Not since Friday, I believe it was,” said Maggie severely. “Come. Come.
To work.”


                                   14

One of the King’s jets (he had two) came gracefully to ground, as
expected (at L. A. International) very early in the morning on
Wednesday. Al Asad and entourage became the center of a cluster of
policemen, Secret Service men, newsmen, cameramen, and a few citizens
curious enough to get up that early. The King was screeched through the
city to the bungalow on the grounds of the posh hotel, where he was shut
abruptly away from sight and sound. He did not (the press was told)
speak English. Later on, perhaps, an official, interpreted interview
might be arranged.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan Tyler found his mother and father watching a rerun of all this on
the downstairs portable television set in the Judge’s study. (Maggie and
the Judge kept a portable TV on each floor of the house for use in cases
of real necessity.) Duncan sensed that his parents were glad to see him
this morning. After all, he _had_ met the King before (as, of course,
had Mitch although more briefly). Duncan had arranged to take the day
off and be, as best he could, some sort of liaison.

The house was cool and in perfect order, humming along smoothly. Duncan
left his parents to their viewing and ran up to look in on the boy.
Jaylia was with him. They were chattering away and Duncan realized that
they were both excited, and both happy to be excited. Tamsen had been
right. They were homesick.

He told Saiph that Tamsen would not come to play this afternoon because
of the party. (That is, if there were to be one.) He said a few words to
Jaylia, who scarcely seemed to see or hear him, and went back down.

But there it was, still. The same damn thing. A man can look at a
princess, he supposed, although there was nothing more that he could do.
Oh, he would if he could. He didn’t kid himself. But the chances that he
ever could were very small. He would not be led into any further
temptation. Duncan knew he had made no great and noble renunciation. The
thing was and always had been . . . well, _almost_ impossible. Besides,
he was married now, to a beloved bride who loved and understood him. He
did not and never would live on the same side of the globe of the earth
as Jaylia, who . . . Well, never mind.

He went to sit with his parents, and began to watch Maggie fondly,
trying to guess what role she would choose this morning. Ah, the calm
chatelaine. Dainty fingertips on every pulse in the house. Would Duncan
take coffee? Nothing was the slightest trouble.

When Jaylia came down to take coffee, too, Duncan was able to sip
quietly, watching and listening while she tried to describe who might be
coming with the King. The entourage, she explained, would consist of at
least three body servants to His Majesty. They would not come here.
There would also be at least three members of what might be called his
inner cabinet, if Alalaf had such a thing. These would be men who were
always at the King’s side whenever he was visible to the people. Any
people. At home, Jaylia said, there would be bodyguards with swords and
daggers, or (on occasion) machine guns.

At this Maggie threw up her hands.

But Jaylia did not think the King would lead what might look like an
armed invasion into this country.

The Judge wanted to know who would be minding the store, and Jaylia made
educated guesses. A very tight military watchfulness would be on in
Alalaf. Everything would be kept strictly status quo; no decisions until
the King came home to make them. After all, who else could?

When the sirens sounded, Maggie caused the coffee cups to disappear.
Jaylia scampered up to her son, the Judge cleared his throat several
times, and Duncan found himself straightening his tie.

The visitors were four. There was no doubt which of them was the King.
His silken robes hung with a difference. Nothing could be seen of the
body, except that it moved well for a man of seventy. The face, beaten
by time, was sharp; it was stern. It had no humor. The eyes seemed cold.

But Al Asad chose to remember Duncan Tyler from a year ago. The King
also chose to speak English this morning.

Now it turned out that Maggie Mitchel Tyler was a Queen this morning.
Duncan was tickled to see Maggie assume a position of equality and let
her crowned head be gracious to its male counterpart. He thought he saw
the King’s eye flicker, briefly.

Their Majesties decided to ascend the stairs almost at once. Behind them
marched the one man of the four who wore trousers. He was in a khaki
outfit of military aspect. He had sparse sandy-reddish hair, and a face
full of freckles. The other two men, both in gowns and headcloths,
remained below, and the Judge turned his hand, indicating that Duncan
must go up and help Maggie do the honors while he, the Judge, attempted
to entertain these two gentlemen.

So Duncan went leaping upward, in the rear of the procession.

He had missed the first encounter of the King with the Prince, not to
mention with the Princess.

Saiph was sitting up in a big blue chair near the balcony doors. He was
wearing white pajamas and a blue robe. Daily sunning had given his skin
a glow. He looked healthy and handsome. Duncan was tickled to notice
that the little face had taken on an imitation of the expression on the
face of the King, his grandfather. It was stern; it was keen, but the
eyes seemed cold.

This east guest room was a large room; it was crowded at the moment. The
King’s presence was imposing. He had been persuaded to sit down in a
chair facing the boy, from just within the passage door. Beside him,
watchdogging the proceedings, stood this freckle-faced chap in the
khaki. Inga was there, in her white uniform, drawn politely into a far
corner. Hayyan was there, dutifully stiff, beside his little master.
Jaylia was there, in her pleasantly designed, but long-sleeved,
high-necked summer frock. Her face was proud and happy, and yet in some
way humble. She had a “presenting” air. “See,” she seemed to say, “may
it please you!”

Maggie was there, just inside, graciously permitting everyone else to be
there.

Duncan stayed just outside. He could not understand a word that was
being said. The King and the little boy were not speaking English to
each other. Duncan began to try to guess who could understand. Jaylia,
by concentrating, was getting most of it. Inga, too. Hayyan, no doubt,
understood it all. So did this King’s man in khaki. But had Duncan not
known that Maggie was totally ignorant of that language, he would have
supposed that Maggie was understanding every syllable in an aloof and
indulgent manner. He had to marvel. Maggie tickled him. She really did.

The visit was not long. It seemed formal, but satisfactory. The King
rose. Duncan stood aside with an ushering gesture. The King nodded and,
with a movement of his eyes, invited Duncan to come along. So the King,
followed by his own man, and only then by Duncan, swept through the
upper passage and down the stairs.

No, the King informed his host, the Judge, the King would not take
coffee. The King would like to speak with the doctor. The Judge agreed
that this meeting must take place, whenever His Majesty wished, of
course. (Omitting the news that Mitch was operating on some other child
this morning.) But the Judge ventured to suggest a small reception,
here, this evening. Certain people. Not many.

The King said something in his own tongue to his companions. The man in
khaki said to Duncan, “May I see the house, please, on this level?”

“Why, sure,” said Duncan, who kept on being irreverently tickled, for
some reason.

“Colonel Heinz Gorob,” the man said, with the ghost of some
heel-clicking.

“Duncan Tyler,” said Duncan amiably. “Come on, let me show you around.”

So the Judge invited the King into his own lair. Al Asad said a word or
two. The white-clad ones stood still. The King stepped cautiously, but
alone, into the study. The Judge, seizing this opportunity and not much
doubting it had been arranged, said quickly and privately what he had
hoped to say. The King understood with an eye-beam and said that he
would be quite willing to exchange a few quiet words with certain
people.

Duncan, still amused but beginning to be slightly outraged, too, watched
this Colonel Gorob inspect the big living room, the lanai, the dining
room, even the kitchen, as if he were looking for rattlesnakes.

When they returned to the reception hall the King was waiting with
indications of royal impatience. He chose to depart in a whirl of white
cloth.

Duncan plunked down in one of his father’s leather chairs. “Whew!”

“The party is on,” the Judge said, licking imaginary cream from
imaginary whiskers.

“What’s up?” Duncan pounced.

“Opportunity.”

“Oh?”

“Quiet words, behind the scenes.”

“In the middle of a social bash!”

“Where else,” his father said, “can it be done so secretly?”

Duncan marveled, fondly.

Jaylia came in, body curving, face smiling.

“Did we pass?” said Duncan crossly, American to ex-half-American, and
the hell with it. The trouble was that Jaylia, upstairs, had just
reminded him of Jaylia in Alalaf, and the whole flavor of it had come
back to him. Something so precious it must be hidden? So irresistible
that it must be forbidden? Or, in itself, so unresisting that it _could_
be taken? In other words, the chiffon-bloomer bit?

When she nodded now in affirmative answer to his question he shifted
restlessly, not pleased that she seemed to have taken it seriously.

“Who the devil is this Colonel Gorob?”

“Oh, a German. Or he once was.” Jaylia sat down. “I believe he was a
displaced child at the end of the Second World War. He’s been around
ever since. Efficient, you know.”

“No flowing robes for him, eh?”

“Unfortunately they don’t suit him,” said Jaylia, and her eyes added, As
they would _you_, oh, handsome one. “The Colonel is not a type who
wishes to look ridiculous.” Now she was bubbling.

“He was looking under the rugs,” said Duncan grumpily.

“Oh, he loves to do that.”

“What _is_ he? Al Asad’s hatchet man?”

Jaylia looked puzzled. Then Maggie came in. Her erstwhile Majesty was a
bit miffed; her crown had gone somewhat askew when she had been left
with the women and children upstairs. “Isn’t he the arrogant old b . . .
bird!” she sputtered. “My word, Jaylia, does a woman have to behave like
a _worm_ with these creatures?”

Jaylia bent her head and looked at her own hands where they were clasped
loosely. “Apparently,” she murmured.

Maggie darted her a glance that answered with mischief. She then sat
down and changed her face. The one she put on now was all sweet
deference, but from behind the mask there steamed and there blew gusts
of pure power, mockingly translated into superfeminine terms.

Duncan marveled. He felt that his mother’s art had just enlightened him.
But to what, he was not sure.


                                   15

The reception was to be at eight o’clock. Maggie, on the phone,
apologized for the inconvenience of so strange an hour but, since it was
His Majesty’s choice, there was nothing to be done about it, was there,
except to arrive promptly. The Judge, meantime, was on his own phone.

At seven-twenty Lurlene put her head out of the bedroom door and said,
“Look, hon, why don’t you just go on ahead? Listen, I’m having a
_terrible_ time with this damned hairdo. You don’t want to be late.”

“No, I don’t want to be any later,” Rufus said tensely. He had been
ready for half an hour, all dressed up in his tux and walking around
like an animal in the zoo.

“If you leave now you can even be early. Listen, I can take a cab. Why
not? So what, if it’s a little bit expensive? This damn hair . . .”

He said, “All right. All right, then.”

He wasn’t seeing her. He was thinking about something else. Her heart
was jumping, but he didn’t say anything more.

When the car had bucked backwards out of the driveway Lurlene dropped
her comb on the dresser and looked at herself in the mirror, and she
wasn’t seeing a thing. In a moment she went tiptoeing, which was silly
because she was all alone in the house, out to the tiny room off the
kitchen that they called Rufus’ “den.” When she looked in the bottom
drawer, it wasn’t there.

So she went back into the bedroom and began to struggle into her new
dress. It was long; it wasn’t too full in the skirt or too low at the
neckline. It was dark. Lurlene had thought of black, but then she had
remembered something from somewhere. Somebody had once said, in her
hearing, that neither black nor white was very good on television. The
dress was a deep, an almost-navy, blue.

Lurlene’s skin kept crawling. It kept crawling, like when you start
getting the flu. She’d already had one tranquillizer. She thought
another wouldn’t hurt. Suddenly she was in a fever to get there, to
arrive, and not miss anything. She wished she hadn’t chickened out,
there for a minute. She called for a cab before she swiftly did her
hair.

Tamsen had chosen white, a simple dress with a high waistline. Her hair
was up. She looked like a small ode-worthy Grecian, from an urn. She was
in Saiph’s room, and he in the blue chair. The boy had been arrayed in
gown, robe and headcloth. The costume suited him marvelously well. Inga
was in the dressing room, changing into a fresh uniform now that her
charge was ready. To Tamsen had fallen the pleasant task of being with
him. They were gay and excited.

Meantime, Jaylia was making herself glamorous (Tamsen had no doubt) in
the west wing. The whole house thrummed with anticipation.

“This is going to be fun,” Tamsen predicted.

Downstairs, the Judge had just answered his phone.

“William?”

“Yes. Oh, Alice! Alice Foster?”

“William, please listen carefully. Can you hear me well?”

“Yes, I can, Alice.” The Judge respected urgency and cut off fripperies.

“I’m going to talk fast, because I may be monitored. Speed’s the thing.”
Alice’s words began to race. “I have with me, as you know, a certain
politically important . . .”

“What drags behind?”

“Yes. Yes. I’ve finally got out of this poor innocent intellectual _who_
must have been behind the late and latent nonsense.” Alice’s voice
rattled and swooped. “William, it is Asiatic. You know. Those people? My
young friend didn’t even realize he was their cat’s-paw. Idealist! Too
easy to sway. Fact is, _I’ve_ swayed him, myself.”

“I’m sure,” the Judge murmured.

“He’s lost to them, but that may not matter. Are you getting this?”

“I’m getting it,” the Judge snapped, unable to keep from responding in a
comparable style.

“I’ve found out that somebody very close to . . . Himself?”

“Yes.”

“_Somebody_ has been bought out by these people. The man is there with
him. The man is there, _now_.”

“And who?” said the Judge.

“I can’t be sure,” said Alice Foster, “but for my money it’s G. G.,” she
repeated. “G. Now, you can’t announce that. You can’t accuse. Not
directly. I haven’t the proof. But warn Himself, quietly. Can you do
that, William? Warn Jaylia, too. And please watch out . . . William, can
you hear all this?”

“Loud and clear. Go on, Alice. As fast as you like.” The Judge’s ear was
sweating on the phone. He could hear her gathering force to continue
this machine-gun delivery, which would, he had to admit, tend to baffle
a listener whose native tongue this was not.

“It is suspected, by those people, that Himself has in mind to make some
contacts. Helpful agreements?”

“That is possible.” The Judge was cautious.

“He has to turn somewhere,” said Alice, “but that’s the last place these
people want him to turn. So, now is _their_ last chance. Do you see
that? Don’t let anything happen there. Because here, it is absolute
tinder. The whole works could go up in flame.”

“In that way?” the Judge asked as she paused for breath.

“What these people will do, on the slightest excuse,” she rattled ahead,
“such as anything that will get into the foreign press, for instance,
and hence be believable . . . then they will martyr Dhanab. Oh, _they_
know where he is. And, in his name . . . which amounts to _something_
. . . there will be a bloody mess. We won’t have seen anything yet.”

“What ought _not_ to happen here?” the Judge said alertly, cutting to
the point.

“Anything. Anything at all _untoward_. Either to Himself or the young
one. Anything suitable for poking up the anti-sentiment that is ready to
explode at any moment. Now, this hireling, you see—especially if he
becomes convinced that alliances are in the wind—might even attempt to
_make_ trouble. Anything to break them off. How can I be clear enough or
emphatic enough . . .”

“You are being emphatic enough,” the Judge rattled back at her. “I’m
listening. Just go on.”

“_Anything_ that happens in the U. S. A. that _they_ can use, they
_will_ use.”

“For what? Raids, riots or revolution?” the Judge let himself drawl,
resorting to a fake humorous effect.

“A massacre,” said Alice Foster. “The twenty-eight, for instance.”

“And _you_?”

“Oh, they will cut _my_ throat first of all,” she said rat-a-tat, “if
that matters.”

“I will do the best I can,” the Judge said without letting his voice
wince. “We all will. G., you think?”

“Oh, yes, I think so. He is a mercenary, I’m betting. But now, William,
let me point out what is _desirable_. Let His M. return well pleased.
Let the boy return, safe and well, and his mother with him. Then the
whole thing swings. One source of power, for these people, leaks _away_
from them. They are set back. Don’t you see?”

“It’s now or never for those people, eh?” the Judge said.

“Oh, William, bless you.” Her voice was running down, exhausted.

“Can you take care?” he snapped.

“I am a stranger in a strange land,” said Alice Foster, “but I know what
I know.”

“I believe you,” the Judge said.

“Have fun,” she said faintly, and hung up.

Humph! This is going to be fun, all right, the Judge said to himself.
Poor woman, waiting in a strange land for her death to become
“desirable,” if “those people” saw their chance to swing that
country. . . .

When he opened the door, there was Maggie, standing at the foot of the
stairs just outside, talking to Rufus. “Good of _you_ to be so early,
dear. Although nobody is here yet, really. Well, Tamsen is upstairs, of
course. Duncan, too. He’s primping in his daddy’s room.” Maggie smiled.
“_You_ look very nice. Why don’t you roam around down here and see if
everything is just so? Oh, William . . .”

She had already received the message from the Judge’s eye: “Something
urgent has come up.”

“Do that for me, Rufus,” said Maggie, “but don’t go upstairs. Everyone
up there may not be decent.” She tapped his arm affectionately and said,
“Oh, William, there _is_ one thing . . .” By some instinct she disguised
the fact that she was being summoned by seeming to summon.

Rufus grunted hail-and-farewell to his father and walked toward the
garden side, skipping the stairs.

Maggie walked into the study and the Judge softly closed the door and
told her.

Maggie said, “Alice has this young man, Dhanab, _with_ her?”

“I don’t know how or why,” the Judge said, “but I had that hunch. After
her letter, I saw by the dictionary that the nickname ‘Dhanab’ means
‘tail.’”

“Does it? Well, we must just make sure that nothing untoward happens
_here_,” Maggie said resolutely. “What, more or less than we _are_
doing, ought we to do?”

“I think,” said the Judge, “that I had better warn my . . . er . . .
special guests not to approach the King, at all, this evening.”

“Isn’t that too bad, dear?”

“Yes, but it may be wiser if this treacherous fellow is not given the
notion that he had better (now or never) _cause_ a little trouble. We
shall see, of course. That may be overcautious.”

“I’ll tell Jaylia,” Maggie said, “and I think, perhaps, Duncan, too. He
can speak to the King as an old acquaintance. Or, given the opportunity,
I’ll tell the King myself. None of _them_ would suspect a woman of
saying anything of importance.”

Maggie was wearing a long dress of a lavender-gray, with a silvery
shimmer woven into the fabric. With it she wore a Victorian magnificence
of amethysts around her neck. She turned and took hold of her skirt,
lifting it daintily in an old-fashioned gesture, and said, “There can’t
be any real danger, if we are just as polite as we can be—and deadly
bores for about two hours.”

“Do try,” the Judge said, “to be dull, Maggie darling.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

In the kitchen Kasim was hanging over an enormous round tray of small
edibles, trying to point out to Chloe which varieties were, in his
opinion, unsuitable. He was having difficulty. Chloe, because she was
enjoying herself very much, had chosen to be obtuse.

When the tallish figure of a man in a dinner jacket went through, behind
them, and whisked around the corner of the doorway to the back
stair-hall, it was the stirring of the air, or perhaps his shadow only,
that made Kasim look up and say sharply, “Who was that?”

Hilde said, “Who? Oh, that was only Mr. Tyler.”

Kasim stared fiercely at the doorway to the spot he had been, in theory,
guarding.

Chloe said, “But how can there be religious reasons? That ain’t meat.
And this ain’t Friday.” She batted her lashes.

Kasim sighed. It was his duty to enlighten this young and pretty
infidel. And _Tylers_ were safe; he knew that, by this time.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Maggie went up the front stairs and tapped on the door of the Judge’s
bedroom. She opened it. Duncan said, grinning widely, “Hi, Maggie. Am I
sufficiently adorable to cope with the fairest flower . . .”

But as she slipped inside and shut the door, he sobered at the sight of
her face. She told him quickly about Alice Foster’s phone call. She
didn’t put on any acts.

Duncan whistled softly. “Gorob, eh? What could he do, I wonder, to
_make_ trouble?”

“He can grab at anything to upset the King,” said Maggie, “who doesn’t
seem to be exactly in love with us adorable Americans.”

“Well, we’ll just have to be as adorable as _hell_,” promised Duncan.

“And, also, dull, don’t forget,” she warned him.

Duncan realized that he “adored” his mother when she put on acts, but he
loved her most when she flattered him and didn’t.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Tamsen was saying, “Well, so long, old-timer. I guess it’s battle
stations.” When she had explained this phrase to his satisfaction she
slipped out of his room. All was ready there. Inga was spotless and
correct. The outer little boy was beautifully arrayed. Yet perhaps he
needed some quiet moments to prepare, inside. Tamsen had a suspicion
that Saiph had become somewhat more Americanized than was politic, for
this evening. And much of this must have been her own doing. The truth
was, he did not belong to her. He belonged to other people.

When she was standing in the upper passage she was struck by the
silence. Downstairs she knew the servants were buzzing softly. On the
terrace she knew the musicians were arranging their chairs and music
stands. All around out of doors, the fortress was ringed by defenders
who were keeping a noise of newsmen at bay.

But here, in the core—here, just outside the precious boy’s room—this
silence was of a peculiarly thick texture. Well, of course, everyone was
busy somewhere else.

Tamsen shrugged and went skipping along toward the main staircase,
passing the door to the Judge’s room with no notion that anyone was
within, then passing Maggie’s door, and so around the corner, and down.


                                   16

Rufus Tyler, standing near the top of the back stairs, around the corner
of a wall, drew no breath until he sensed that Tamsen had gone.

When he slid along the empty passage, rubbing a shoulder on the inside
wall, he found the door to Saiph’s room standing about a quarter of the
way open. All that could be seen, through the gap, was a door to the
dressing room and bath, there in the side wall, toward the Judge’s
bedroom.

But now the door of the Judge’s bedroom itself began to swing inward,
causing a faint shifting of air currents and a change of light in the
curtained corridor. There was just room in the narrow triangle for Rufus
to place his feet and draw his body out of the passage, to be hidden
from any glance cast casually along it. Yet he was not visible to very
much of the room behind him.

Inga was saying, placidly, “There will be ceremonies.”

“I know,” said Saiph, “I must wait here. But I am very thirsty.” His
voice was lazy, but commanding.

Tamsen, where the stairs curved and bridged the hall below, crossed over
and came down sedately to the last step, where she hesitated, with the
door to the Judge’s study at her left, one of the arches to the living
room at her right, and the front door before her. Sam, in his stiff
white coat, was stationed there to bow in the guests, some of whom must
have already arrived. From here, she could see a few people in the big
room, and among them Phillida, wearing a satin gown of dullish green, so
understated that the first impression was the elegance of the woman.
Tamsen was relieved to see her. Phillida would have everything in hand.
Tamsen herself was feeling very young and shy.

Then Sam said, “Mrs. Rufus Tyler. Good evening, ma’am.”

There was Lurlene, and Sam taking her somewhat battered “mink” stole.
Lurlene, looking quite nice in dark blue, but not at all nice in the
face.

Tamsen drew in a sharp breath. She took a quick step down and she came
to Lurlene. She didn’t say “Good evening” or even “Hello.” She didn’t
ask where Rufus was. She sensed there wasn’t time. Lurlene’s terrified
eyes met hers at once. Lurlene sent a nervous tongue over her upper lip
and burst, “_What’s wrong?_”

Tamsen said nothing. She tilted her head. She watched. She listened. She
ached to read through the skin. Sam had carried the wrap away. There was
no one else near enough to watch and listen and somehow know.

“I’m sorry,” whined Lurlene, “I said he should go on ahead because I
didn’t want to hold him up. _I_ just got here in a cab myself, I mean
. . .” All this was excuse, apology, alibi. _For what?_

Tamsen simply turned and flew up the stairs, as light-footed as a child.

Lurlene put her hand to her throat, blinked, and started toward the
stairs. But Phillida came swinging out of the living room. “Hi,
Lurlene,” she said. “Come and meet some people. The King isn’t here yet,
but he soon will be.”

“I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m . . .” Lurlene’s eyes rolled. “I’m scared!”

“You looked it,” said Phillida, in a kindly way. “I fly to the rescue.
Come on. I know somebody who is probably just as scared. You can help.”

“What . . .” whispered Lurlene, “what’s _happening_?”

“Oh, we are having a gay time,” said Phillida blithely. “Three movie
stars so far, and all absolutely furious because they got here first.
You’re looking very smart and proper.”

Lurlene swallowed. She felt her blood begin to flow differently. I guess
he goofed, she thought, and that figures. He would. Listen, she told
herself, it wasn’t that I _wanted_ anybody to get hurt, or anything.

She said to Phillida, “Well, I thought . . . something simple, you
know?”

“Very wise,” Phillida approved. “Oh, Mrs. Hardy, may I present my
sister-in-law, another Mrs. Tyler?”

The Judge, who was standing, for strategic purposes of his own, near the
garden doors, noticed the movements of his daughters-in-law, caught the
sense of momentary panic, then of Phillida’s cool hand on things.

Upstairs, the Princess wore a crown of her own hair. She was clad in
gold. Her gown was long of skirt and sleeve, and high to her throat. The
fabric was stiff and under the shape of the dress, the body curved
invisibly. But the body was potently there, as Duncan noted with one
uncontrollable part of his senses. Otherwise, he was intelligently
concerned with what Maggie was telling this young woman. The young
woman, he observed, was receiving the news that many people, including
her own mother, were in danger, without making any girlish outcries. The
three of them were clustered in the upper passage, just outside Maggie’s
door.

As Inga went into the boy’s bathroom to fetch him a glass of water . . .

As the door to that east guest room, that had been standing on a slant,
began to swing inward, opening . . .

As the boy sat absolutely still, staring into the eyes of the sudden man
. . .

As Tamsen came from the stairwell, flitting in a curious way, like a
blown brittle leaf, her arms working, from the elbows, angularly. Her
face was white. Her lips set. Her eyes blazed. They, and the motion of
her arms, canceled all thought of any of the three becoming an
impediment to her purpose. She was not to be stopped! She passed them
by.

Duncan growled astonishment and took strides after her.

The door to Saiph’s room stood wide. A few feet inside, stood Rufus
Tyler with a gun in his hand. The boy sat in the blue chair and his eyes
were not swerving from the man’s face, as if the man were a snake and
the boy an accomplished charmer of reptiles. Someone was running water
in the bathroom. A faucet thumped closed.

The man, startled, jerked up the gun. The boy raised his right arm; his
robes made an angel wing. Tamsen blew in like a leaf. There was a flash,
a glitter of light. She fell against the man’s right forearm as the gun
made a sharp little bark, and the knife sliced along Tamsen’s flesh. She
staggered and fell hard against the man’s body. He pawed with frantic
feet on the round white rug that lay on the polished floor. The rug
skidded. They both fell. On the way down, the man’s head hit the edge of
a wooden chair. When he was down, he murmured softly and his head rolled
and he was still. The white of Tamsen’s gown began to soak up redness.
The white of the boy’s sleeve was reddening.

The only sounds had been the bark of the gun, the crack of the man’s
head, and a series of soft thumpings and subsidings.

Duncan went, in an apelike crouch, to where his wife had fallen on her
face. The blood was welling from her upper back along her left shoulder
blade, seeping into the white of her bodice, slipping down along the
bare flesh and under her left arm into the thickness of the rug.

Tamsen said in a tone that was hushed, “He didn’t hurt Saiph? He
_didn’t_?”

Duncan looked up; although he was feeling almost blind, he could see
that Inga was already there, bunching the white fabric under the boy’s
right upper arm. The boy had not made a sound. Duncan looked at his
brother Rufus, who seemed to be napping peacefully. His breathing was
gentle. Duncan thought that he himself must be going mad. He twisted his
neck to look behind, and saw his mother in her lavender silver, and the
Princess in the gold, standing together silently in the open door.

And he thought, in fierce rebellion, that wanted _noise_, If Tamsen’s
badly hurt, the hell with the rest of the whole damned world! But from
long habit, he looked first to see what the truth was. He didn’t dare
touch, but the wound was more broad than deep. Tamsen’s profile was
smashed against the white rug. Her eye was wincing and blinking. But she
was not going to cry. He seemed to know that Tamsen was not, for
instance, dying.

Then Maggie Mitchel Tyler, a small and rather elderly person in silvery
lavender, put out her hand and closed that bedroom door, gently, but
very firmly.

Duncan recognized the instinct to conceal, to wait, to catch at one’s
breath and one’s wits.

He caught at his own. Now the press? Headlines? =American Guns
Prince.= . . . PRINCE KNIFES AMERICAN GIRL.

Maggie had come to speak to Inga. “Is it bad? No, I see. Will it bleed?”

“It is not bad. I can stop the bleeding.” Inga was blunt and factual.

Maggie looked down. “Tamsen?”

“All right,” said Tamsen.

“This did not happen, you know,” said Maggie, as if she were reasoning
with a director at rehearsal. “Nothing, at all, has happened in this
room.”

Jaylia then said some quick foreign words and the boy answered with one.

And Maggie went swiftly to the doors to the balcony, opened them in a
quick double swing, stepped outside, leaned slightly and called below.
“Did you gentlemen hear anything strange, just now?” she inquired, with
more curiosity than alarm.

“Ah no, Maggie, you can’t,” groaned Duncan.

He heard Jaylia speak low. “Turn up the air conditioning. Is there a
spray to get the smell out?”

But Inga had towels, now, and was working with the boy.

Duncan crouched where he was, over the fallen people, the bloodied rug,
the disaster.

A man’s voice, American, called up from outside. “There was something,
Mrs. Tyler. In the house, was it?”

“_I_ thought it was outside,” said Maggie. “You don’t know? Oh, I hear
that the musicians have come. Why _must_ they scrape so! Hayyan? And the
other gentlemen? Has anyone given you coffee?”

“It could have come from the kitchen,” the American voice said.

“Saiph, my dear,” Maggie’s voice changed. “I believe I see how to prove
to you what I was saying. If you could come out?”

Jaylia pounced upon her son. A wad of toweling was under his arm. His
mother snatched another large clean towel and threw it over his right
shoulder. The boy got to his feet. His mother was whispering in his ear.

“Mrs. Tyler,” the voice said, below. “I don’t know as he ought to come
outside until we check . . .”

“Oh mercy! Then, _I’ll_ stand in front of him, myself,” Maggie promised,
gaily. “Now, then, my dear . . .”

The boy was on the balcony, Maggie in advance of him on the railing
side. “Do you see the sky?” Maggie’s voice charmed and teased. “Is that
not the east? Now, do you not see the pink and the purple? So does not
the sun set in the east, sometimes?”

Saiph laughed.

Duncan could almost feel the whole world relax.

“No, no, Aunt Maggie. That’s only the reflection,” the boy said.

“It is?” said Maggie, mock-dubious. “Well, it may _be_, I suppose.”

“You were pulling my leg,” said Saiph. “Do I say that correctly?”

Maggie was laughing now, in lavender silver, on a set to represent a
summer evening, in a sentimental musical. Duncan, paralyzed where he
was, thought, But she can’t do this!

“Oh, please,” called Maggie to those below. “Would you mind asking the
musicians to hurry over that dreadful tuning-up? We can’t have it going
on when the King comes, can we?”

Duncan could almost see someone below melting, all his purposes
dissolving in a wish to please her.

Then Saiph called down something merry in his own language and somebody
laughed (as it were) in that foreign tongue.

Duncan marveled.

“Come in. Come in, dear,” said Maggie. “Your royal grandfather should be
along any minute. You do look handsome. Your mother looks most
beautiful, don’t you agree?”

(How could anything have happened here, where everyone was handsome or
beautiful, and filled with summery laughter?)

With perfect timing, on the tail of her sentence, Maggie closed (and
then she nervously locked) the balcony doors.

Jaylia was laying out another set of clothing for Saiph. Inga had her
first aid kit now, bandages ready. The boy walked toward his nurse
carefully. There was no sign of pain on his small face.

Maggie looked down at her son Rufus, and one flash of pain crossed her
eyes. But she said, “He seems quiet. Take Tamsen into Dad’s room,
Duncan. Take the rug and all. There is another, exactly like it, on my
bedroom floor. Fetch that here, will you?”

“Maggie, we can’t—” he began.

But Jaylia turned on him. “Do as you’re told.” He looked up into her
eyes. “How many people do you insist shall die?” she hissed. “We can’t
_have_ this. You should realize . . .”

Oh yes, he thought, that’s right. Now, I remember. Something about a
massacre?

Tamsen said, “Don’t let . . . the family . . . down the drain. Duncan,
don’t _do_ that.”

“We won’t do that,” said Maggie. “Nothing has happened, here.”

“Downstairs—there’s Lurlene.” Tamsen was gasping.

“Does she know?” Maggie pounced, and Duncan groaned.

“She _expected_. That’s how I . . .”

Jaylia said, “I’ll go and see that she is seen to. I’ll also send the
Doctor.”

“Yes, go. Do that, Jaylia,” said Maggie. “And mind—you take their
attention.”

Duncan got to his feet, feeling furious. The boy, under Inga’s
ministrations, was looking keen and cold. Jaylia was pulling herself
together to resume . . . what? Power?

“Damn white of you, to think of the Doctor,” snarled Duncan, releasing
some of his feelings. He bent and scooped up his wife, rug and all. The
limp body of his brother was tumbled in the process. Duncan didn’t care.

When he stepped into the passage the Princess was walking ahead of him,
encased in her stiff gold, yet with a womanly swaying. He didn’t know
why, but as a person and in the flesh, she meant nothing to him anymore.
Nothing at all.

It was Maggie who nipped just ahead to open the door to the Judge’s
bedroom. Duncan carried his wife, his darling burden, to the big bed and
put her gently down on her face, the rug still under her.

“Mind, no blood on you,” said Maggie quietly. She closed the door and
put up a soft light. “Fetch the other rug, now. And something must be
done with Rufus.”

Duncan let his fury out on his mother. “Lug the guts into the neighbor
room, eh?”

“Do not waste our time,” said his mother, gently.

“She is my—”

“We cannot argue, nor can we discuss, not even plan,” said Maggie. “We
must simply _do_ this. Hurry, please, dear?”

Duncan went into his mother’s dim and scented room and snatched the
round white rug from the floor. He went into the boy’s room to lay it
down, spotless and innocent, where its counterpart had been.

Inga was working expertly to bandage the gouge in the flesh under the
boy’s right arm, where the bullet had ripped at it as the arm had been
raised to throw. The wound might not be serious; it must be painful. The
boy’s face was stern and cold. His eyes turned. They had no guilty
anguish; they did not plead to be forgiven. His voice did not apologize.
It explained. “Tamsen meant to save me. I meant to save myself.”

“Yes, I saw what happened,” said Duncan, with control. “Now, it’s save
the surface and save all, eh? That’s a slogan.”

He bent, escaping the boy’s steady eyes, and hit his brother rather
sharply on a certain spot of the neck with the edge of his hand. (And
why, he did not know.) Then he picked Rufus up, like a sack of beans,
and carted him through the silence, the uncanny silence, of the upper
passage, into the Judge’s room and dumped him on the carpet.

Then looking gloomily down, Duncan felt himself flowing into a state of
thaw. Now he remembered another boy. A bumbling cheerful little boy—the
one whom Duncan had beaten at every game as soon as Duncan had grown old
enough to play it. But the brother he had loved, just the same. Inept,
and yet—no matter—one of them. One of the Tyler sons.

How had Rufus come to this? Why haven’t we taken notice? Duncan thought.
What has been happening, while we’ve paid it no attention? How could he
have come to the point of doing so mad, so wicked a deed, and his own
people not know how it was with him?

Maggie said, reading his mind, “Poor Rufus. What will you do with him,
Duncan? I must go down. And so must you. The time is very short.”

“Telling Dad?” Duncan accepted the effort, now.

“I think not,” Maggie said. “Not yet.” She seemed to be brooding
somberly. Having said the time was short, she was not hurrying.
“Improvisation on a theme,” she pronounced. “Nothing has happened.”

“Nothing will, either,” Duncan promised her, with sudden spirit.

His wits and energies began to operate, unimpeded by rage. He dragged
his brother into the Judge’s complex of bath-shower-cupboards and all
the rest.

When he came back into the bedroom, Maggie had gone. Tamsen was lying
there, her fingers tight on the edge of the pillow—in pain, but making
not a whimper. He bloodied his shirt after all.


                                   17

A selected number of cameras and floodlights had been let in, under
strict supervision, as far as the driveway in front of the portico. As
the big cars came, and the doors opened, and the beautiful people
emerged in full plumage (attended by their mates), each had his moment
of passage through the band of light. There was a woman reporter on a
microphone, describing the costumes. Guards and police stood thick
around. The general public, of course, had to watch on TV this very
private, very exclusive social occasion in all its glamorous uproar.

Behind the garage, there was a path and a gate. Here guards stood,
thick, in the growing dusk, to let in certain other guests, who came
this way, quietly, on foot, from cars they had left at a little
distance. They were escorted through the silent gardens and taken up the
terraces and let in by the garden doors.

These few were welcomed by the Judge, where he stood placed to intercept
them, and to the male of each pair he spoke quietly, saying in effect,
“Not yet. Perhaps not at all. We shall see.” Then these people, all
well-dressed but none startling to the eye, blended inconspicuously with
the gathering crowd.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Mrs. Hardy said to Lurlene, “So that’s the Princess, eh? I suppose, when
the King shows up, everybody gets to stand in line and meet him, too.”

“I suppose.” Lurlene licked her lips nervously.

“Not me,” said her companion, a thin woman who carried an aura of bitter
anger. She was watching her husband, a peacock, who even now was
spreading his tail-feathers (the old fool!)—waiting for the Princess to
notice _him_. “What’s she like, anyhow?”

“Oh, sa-ay,” Lurlene began, with hint of much lore. Then she changed her
mind and said, “You really mean you’re not going to get in line, to meet
this king?”

“Not me,” said Mrs. Hardy.

This struck Lurlene as the height of something or other, to have the
chance of meeting this king, and just not bothering. “Listen, _I_ don’t
really want to, either,” she confided.

“So let the rest of them line up, like a herd of sheep,” said Mrs.
Hardy, who may have braced herself with alcohol before she came to this
arid place. “Not me, honey. Not _this_ chicken!”

Lurlene had to giggle. “Well,” she said, “I can tell you, _she_ didn’t
look like so much, the other morning.”

“Oh-ho! Say, why couldn’t we go out there and sit down? I’d like to get
the real skinny.” Mrs. Hardy was contemplating the terrace. It made her
sick to contemplate her husband.

“The only thing is,” said Lurlene, not quite sure whether she ought to
agree, “my husband is probably looking all over the place for me.”

“Let him,” said Mrs. Hardy viciously. “Do him a world of good.”

“Well, O.K.,” said Lurlene, “why not?” She giggled and slid the screen,
and they slipped out to the west terrace, where “live” musicians were
now softly playing “background music.” The two women found a shadowy
spot where there were two chairs.

“Well, I must say, this is a heck of a lot better,” said Mrs. Hardy, who
had no notion of the ring of eyes that watched them from stations all
around the grounds. She lit a cigarette. “Now, what about this buxom
lass, the Princess? And, by the way, can we get ourselves some punch, or
whatever is going?” Mrs. Hardy had brought her own vodka and intended to
have a do-it-herself cocktail party.

Lurlene sighed with pleasure. “We sure can,” she promised. “I know this
house. Just as soon as Maggie gives the word, Sam will be going around.
I’ll get hold of him. You know, this princess was running around in a
pair of shorts up to _here_.” Lurlene was, to her surprise, having quite
a good time at the party. (Well, Rufus had goofed, as usual. So why
not?)

                 *        *        *        *        *

Jaylia, within doors, continued to greet the guests that Phillida
continued to present. But the Princess contrived to drift her whole
group close to Mitch.

“Oh, do please excuse me?” she said to the latest candidates for her
acquaintance. “Doctor Tyler?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I am to tell you that your patient would like to ask a question of
monumental importance that only you can answer.”

“Now, if that’s so,” said Mitch, smiling, “I had better go up and see
what I can do.”

Phillida, because Jaylia was laughing and looking amused, said
encouragingly, “But what can the question be?”

“My little boy,” the Princess said, charmingly, to those who stood
around her, “would like to know whether he may go off his diet, for the
occasion of this party, and have American ice cream.”

“How cute!” “Isn’t that adorable!”

Mitch smiled, with the rest. He did not hurry, but he went.

“Have you seen Lurlene?” said Jaylia, under cover of all the cooing.

“I know where she is,” said Phillida carelessly.

“I hope she is . . . having a quiet time?”

Phillida’s brows curled and then smoothed out. “Shall I . . . er . . .
?”

“Make sure,” said Jaylia. “Oh, yes, he is quite delighted with _many_
American foods.”

“I cleaned the knife,” said Duncan dourly, “by the way.”

“Good thinking,” his brother Mitchel said.

“Where’s the gun?”

“Inga’s got it. Bullet’s in the wall. That’s O.K. She moved the bureau.
I’ll take the knife back, then. Expect he feels naked, without it.” The
Doctor was leaning over Tamsen, with a lamp turned to shine directly on
her wound. “Isn’t much more than a slice off the white meat, Tamsen. You
got skun, as in ‘I skun my knee.’ Bet it hurts like the devil.”

“It does. It does,” she gasped. “Saiph is really O.K.?”

“Not bad, either. He’s tough, that one. Still, I’ve got to get the two
of you out of here somehow.”

“Why?” Duncan was touchy to alarm.

The Doctor’s hands were busy. He had his emergency bag of tools, always
left here in his father’s room. “I’ll do what I can to dull this down,
Tamsen. But not to knock your wits out. You may need them.”

“Why can’t she just lie low until the party’s over?” Duncan bristled.

“When is it going to be over?” Mitch said. “And what makes you think all
the newsmen will leave, at any given moment? At the least, she’ll have
to walk out, even if she just goes home. I’d a heck of a lot rather have
her in the hospital.”

“Why?”

“Oh, come on,” the Doctor said. “You think yon knife was sterilized?”

“She’s not going to . . .”

“No, she is not,” said the Doctor sternly. “Take a look at yourself, why
don’t you? Get into one of Dad’s shirts, and quick. The old boy must be
on his way by now.”

“I don’t want to leave Tam.”

“Yes, you do,” said Tamsen.

“You know, I think I’ll send Phillida up,” the Doctor said, looking
thoughtfully down at her. “When you do walk out of here, sweetie, you’d
better look somewhat less bedraggled and torn. Bloodstains aren’t being
worn this season, either. Phillida will know how to fix you up.”

“My hair must be a perfect _mess_,” said Tamsen, with silly courage.

“Are we going to get away with this?” Duncan was out of his own shirt
and getting one of his father’s ready. His fingers felt thick on the
studs.

“Of course we are,” said Tamsen. “I feel better already.”

“Trust _her_,” said the Doctor, and then grimly, “Where is Rufus? Him,
we _can’t_ trust.”

Duncan said, “I’ve got him secured. I’ll show you.”

They went into the Judge’s dressing room and Mitch crouched and said,
“Oh for God’s sakes! Listen, there is no such thing as a gag that works
worth a damn.” He was taking the stuffing out of Rufus’ mouth. “I’ll say
you’ve got him secured,” Mitch muttered.

Duncan had tied Rufus, hand and foot, and by the neck as well. Mitch was
taking the Judge’s white silk scarf from around that limp neck. “No need
to strangle him, you idiot. Bring my bag.”

Duncan did so, and stood there, putting on the clean shirt while he
watched the Doctor’s lean hands swiftly examine the physical thing there
on the floor. “I hit him, you know,” said Duncan lamely.

“You did, eh? Not too hard? Right?”

Then Mitch sank back on his heels, where, in motionless silence, he
conducted a further examination within his assessing mind. “Well, we
can’t trust it,” he decreed. So Duncan watched, while the Doctor pulled
back Rufus’s jacket and made an injection.

“Should hold him till the party’s over,” Mitch said, “Poor devil.” He
gave Duncan a hard look. “Come on. Time’s wasting. Give me that knife.”

When Mitch had slipped away to take the wickedly curving, and now
shining, knife back to its owner, Duncan bent over his wife. “How in
hell can I leave you?”

“Because you have to,” she said. “I can stay here . . .” She groped for
words to brace him. “I should think you would have _noticed_. _I_ do not
_want_ people to get killed.”

“I guess I more or less begin to get the pitch,” said Duncan, wanly.

                 *        *        *        *        *

In the boy’s room, Mitch handed over the knife silently. The boy, using
his good arm, sheathed it mysteriously within his clean garments.
Mitch’s trained eye checked for signs of shock. It saw none. So he
smiled, in his Mephistophelian way, glanced around the room (in which
nothing seemed to have happened), nodded to Inga, signifying faith, and
went to meet Duncan in the passage.

Duncan was wiping his brow.

“Pull up your socks,” Mitch said. “If _I’m_ breaking the rules I live
by, _you_ can damn well be a carefree playboy.”

“Right.” Duncan settled his shoulder muscles. “The show must go on, eh?
Our mother’s sons, eh?”

“What else?” snapped Mitch. “Raised in the magic of make-believe.” But
his eyes were softer than his words, and he grinned, before he turned to
lead the way.

They could hear the sirens.


                                   18

Downstairs, the guests could hear them, too.

Maggie, who had been suggesting by the power of make-believe that she
had been among her guests all along, now went to the arch nearest the
entrance door. The company was drawn into a pattern, facing this archway
as if it were the stage, and the volume of sound in the room fell to a
few murmurings.

The Judge, with Jaylia on his arm, came to join Maggie. The sirens,
outside, choked off. Two of those good-looking young Tyler sons came
quietly down the stairs to station themselves with the others in this
semblance of a receiving line.

The Judge wondered, for a moment, where the girls were. Then he saw
Phillida in the audience, and presumed that Maggie wished this kept
simple. The Judge had problems of his own on his mind.

When Al Asad came into the spotlight of attention he was no
disappointment. The people swayed like grass at the impact of his royal
presence and watched the ceremonious greetings with fascinated eyes.

Then, as was understandable, the King and the Doctor drew aside, while
the Judge brought Jaylia, and Maggie brought two of these long-gowned
foreigners, into the big room to be engulfed.

So it was Duncan who edged around to be near Phillida.

Colonel Gorob did not leave the King’s side until he perceived the
technical nature of the Doctor’s discourse. His uniform, his
undistinguished stature, and his freckled face did not receive as many
curious glances as did his more exotic companions. He was able to slip
away from formalities and begin to move among the standing people
quietly, his freckled ears on the alert.

Heinz Gorob had seen the handwriting on the wall, long ago, when he had
first found out that Al Saiph was not going to live to be very old. The
old King was a good master, but he was not going to outlast the Colonel,
and the Colonel had begun to think about his own future.

He had considered Dhanab.

Gorob was a natural second-in-command. He functioned most comfortably
under a powerful master whose power was given to Gorob to exert. But
Dhanab was not a born master. He was too hesitant and too muddled. He
might do for a puppet. But Gorob, who could pull the strings below him,
needed a master above. He had quite recently found some new masters. Or
they had found him.

The handwriting was on the wall for Alalaf. No such tiny state could
exist much longer, independent of the great modern realities. It must be
absorbed into one sphere of influence or another. Gorob envisioned
himself as second-in-command to the real masters of Alalaf, wielding
(behind some front, of course) the kind of power he enjoyed.

He felt himself to be absolutely trustworthy. The King, for instance,
had trusted him for years. But times change. His new masters would find
him trustworthy, now. Gorob himself, however, trusted almost nobody.
Particularly Americans.

When he had warned his contacts, here in Los Angeles, that the foolish
old king might go so far as to believe the promises of these
imperialist-hypocrites, the representatives of his new masters had
advised him to note anything . . . anything at all . . . about these
deceitful people that might be usefully exposed. So Gorob (who was a
linguist) began to drift and eavesdrop.

        “Wouldn’t want to meet one of those fellows on a dark night.
          _Brrrr._”

        “They’re theoretically civilized. You old enough to remember
          Valentino?”

        “Isn’t it the women who wear the trousers?
        “Yes, but not the pants, ha ha.”

        “Say, why don’t you make a play for the Princess, Rory?”
        “You think that’s punishment?”

Frivolous, frivolous, thought Gorob disapprovingly.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Sam was going by with a tray. Duncan said to Phillida, “Will you?” He
lifted a glass for each of them.

“If Maggie thinks it’s time, it must be time,” she said.

“Where’s Lurlene? Hang on to your face!”

“Out on the terrace, having a gossip. I just checked. Don’t know _why_,
of course.” Phillida was curious, but cool.

Duncan said, “If you’re ready?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re needed upstairs.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows went up smoothly. Her smile stayed on.

So, while his eyes roved as if he were merely chattering nothings as he
surveyed the scene, Duncan told her.

“Nothing has happened,” he began. “Hang on to that. Rufus went off his
rocker, actually shot the boy. Not serious. Tamsen deflected his aim.
Boy threw a knife and got Tamsen in the upper back. Not serious. Mitch
says you’ve got to fix her up, clothing-wise. Dad’s room. _Maggie says
nothing has happened._”

“I should think not,” said Phillida, who had turned only a little pale.
She drank thirstily. “What did you do with—”

Colonel Gorob had just come, like a shadow, into the fringe of a group
just behind them. But Duncan had moved his feet and had glanced full
circle.

Duncan said, “You remember . . . which was it, now? _Through the Looking
Glass?_”

“Alice?” said Phillida, brightly.

The sound of this name caused Gorob to prick up his ears and begin to
listen with interest.

“Well, it’s like in guinea pigs,” drawled Duncan. “Don’t worry about
it.”

“Who knows?” said Phillida, with a shrug and the wrong inflections,
disguising her literal question.

“A domestic affair, eh?” Duncan smiled at her but sent his pupils
sideways in warning. “Go,” they said.

Phillida gave him her empty glass. “Please? And excuse me, Duncan? I
ought to circulate.”

“Of course. _I_ should . . .” Duncan turned around. “Ah, good evening,
Colonel,” he said cordially. “Have you had refreshment, sir?”

                 *        *        *        *        *

The King was now across the room, standing beside Maggie. Maggie, who
knew exactly where Colonel Gorob was at the moment, and also that the
other two strangers were well surrounded, said to Al Asad, in the full
hearing of six people, in what seemed to be purely conversational tones,
very chit-chatty, “I understand that there is a traitor and a spy in
your entourage, Your Majesty. I think that’s fascinating! Don’t you?”

None of the six guests was quite sure what she had said. Maggie could,
if she so willed, beam her voice into one ear only. The fact was, none
of the six really cared what _she_ was saying, each being occupied in
trying to think of something to say for himself. Furthermore, her
cadences had been the heavily accented beats that go with trivia. (What
an _ab_solutely _dar_ling bracelet!) Whereas tragedy comes in monotones.
(Look, I’m sorry, lady, but your husband had a little accident, and as a
matter of fact, he . . .)

The King, who had heard her plainly, said nothing.

“That’s what Alice Foster says,” gushed Maggie, all deference and
flutter. “Dear Alice! We went to school together, ages and ages ago.”

“So I have been told,” the King said gravely. His eyes were fixed on her
face.

“We are still in constant touch! Isn’t that remarkable! He begins with
the letter G,” said Maggie. “So Alice surmises. She can be so amusing.”

“Yes, indeed,” the King murmured politely. But his glance had gone over
her head, in the desired direction.

“Oh, Monica,” cried Maggie. “Your Majesty, may I present a very dear
. . .”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Elsewhere in the room, Mitch, hero-surgeon, was bearing up under more
gushing praise than he cared for, when his wife came slipping to his
side. “Are you allowing Saiph to come down, dear? So many people want to
know.”

“Oh, now, about that . . . Excuse us?” Mitch drew his wife away. This
was understandable. Everyone hoped to see the Little Prince.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Phillida said, “Spot on your left cuff. I’m clued.”

Mitch looked at his watch, and in the process rearranged his jacket
sleeve. “I’ve had a thought,” he began.

“Level, first,” said Phillida, in an undertone. “Will she be all right?”

“If the knife was clean,” said her husband grimly. Then louder, “I’d
like to persuade His Majesty and the Princess to come up with me. I want
to suggest something.”

“Both of them? Away from the party?” Phillida said. “Oooh, the hostess
won’t like that! I had better check for neglected souls.”

She moved in the direction of the hall. Mitch moved in the direction of
his mother.

Colonel Gorob moved in the direction of the King. His ears were pink
with delight.

That had been _blood_ on the Doctor’s cuff. Recent? Of course, since he
must have dressed himself afresh for this occasion. So? A knife had
wounded someone in this house. “Someone” was a woman. It was a domestic
affair. Ah, these clever Americans! The woman’s name might be “Alice.”
Yet, perhaps not. The Colonel was easily persuading himself that he had,
all along, been sensing undercurrents here. So, blood and a knife and a
woman? And all in secret. Very clever, these Americans. But not, of
course, as clever as he.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Lurlene saw Phillida ghosting by again, between her and the musicians.
“Hey, Phillida! Excuse me.”

“Who is it? Oh, Lurlene. Yes? Mrs. Hardy, are you comfortable?”

Mrs. Hardy was very comfortable indeed.

Lurlene, having accepted the comfort of a drop of vodka, here and there,
was also getting tipsy.

“Listen,” she said anxiously, “I haven’t seen one single sign of Rufus
and I’m getting worried.”

“Of course you are.” Phillida bent closer. “I’m afraid he may have
fortified himself a little too much. Best not to disturb, don’t you
think?”

“Oh, I see,” said Lurlene. “Well, thanks. Gee, I’m sorry. Is Maggie
awful upset?”

“She hasn’t the time,” Phillida smiled and glided away.

To Mrs. Hardy, Lurlene said, “You know, my husband has been drinking
pretty heavy, lately.” This wasn’t the truth, but near enough.

“Me, too,” said Mrs. Hardy, cheerfully. “The on—ly way to fly.”

Lurlene, however, was not amused. She was beginning to wonder if she was
so smart to be hiding out here with this stupid dame and missing
everything. _She_ didn’t think Rufus was drunk. Probably those dumb
pills. Because a drink or two couldn’t hurt, could it? Especially when
you felt—well—let down or something. But you were _supposed_ to be
having a good time, at a party.


                                   19

The guest bedroom in the east wing was a large one, but it was crowded.
The King was there, seated where he had sat this morning. Colonel Gorob
stood stiffly beside Al Asad’s chair, keeping his ears and his eyes
open, even while his wits were racing. One part of his mind considered
the boy, who was a factor, now, and a powerful one.

Why this was clearer to him than it had been this morning, Gorob did not
know, but Al Saiph, dressed as he was now dressed, looking as he now
looked—somehow older, new planes on his cheeks, somehow emerging from
childhood, becoming under one’s eyes a young male of the royal line, and
not sickly, either—he was a factor impossible to dismiss. Nor could his
mother, the Princess, standing there in her gold, be dismissed too
lightly. She was a widow. Half-formed schemes tumbled in the Colonel’s
deep-dreaming mind.

Meantime, his eyes inspected Inga Bjornsen, who was there, drawn
respectfully into the corner, spotless in her uniform, as silent and
dour as ever. Gorob discarded any suspicion that it could have been she
whose blood had stained the Doctor’s cuff. Nor could it have been the
Princess. No, not that golden glow. And not, he concluded, their
hostess, who was standing there in her silvery gown, beaming in her
silly fashion, a pampered so-called “society” woman in a decadent
society, who would have no tolerance for pain.

All the while, the Colonel’s ears were listening to the Doctor, who was
saying that he realized there might be some considerations to do with
this particular patient that, providing his well-being was not
jeopardized, the Doctor was proposing to take into account. It had
occurred to him that it might seem desirable to His Majesty, and
perhaps, also, to the Princess, if Prince Saiph were to be permitted to
fly home to his own country tomorrow, on the King’s own plane. “Unless,”
the Doctor continued, “Your Majesty would prefer not to risk both of
your persons in the one plane. In which case,” the Doctor smiled, “we
will be very glad to keep him with us.”

Colonel Gorob was finding himself startled.

Jaylia did not speak or even gasp. Into the boy’s face an eagerness
leaped, but he said nothing.

Al Asad, with his palm over his chin, said, “If he can safely travel
with me, tomorrow, that would be desirable.”

Now Jaylia did gasp and clasp her hands. Across Maggie’s face ran a
parade of emotions—surprise, dismay, resignation, sadness, and on into
unselfish-rejoicing.

Gorob, however, was viewing the prospect with some alarm. What! The
royal family returning all together, with the boy looking as he now
looked—landing in a blaze of glamorous excitement with joyous tidings
from America, with the inevitable gratitude and a softening . . .

The Doctor was now saying that the boy’s health was, of course, his
primary consideration and responsibility. And to that end, he would very
much like—in fact, must insist—that the boy be transferred to the
hospital for the balance of this night. This to enable some tests, some
final checkings, to provide all possible assurance that the Doctor, in
his experienced and yet intuitive judgment, was correct. If everything
was found to be healing as well as the Doctor felt sure was true in this
case, then the Doctor could trust Miss Bjornsen, who was (in his
opinion) an excellent nurse, to continue a regime which she well
understood. Yes, after such testing—a cautious step the King must
understand and approve—if all went well, the boy might go.

The Doctor turned and said to Saiph easily, “We’ll just put you back in
your old nest for a few hours.”

“Very good,” the boy said. “Then I can say good-bye to many kind
people.”

“Ah,” said the Colonel.

But the King stopped him with a raised hand. “You will arrange this,
Doctor? How soon?”

“I will telephone for an ambulance. I will alert the escorts. It won’t
take, I should say, more than twenty minutes or half an hour for them to
come. That is, if this is your pleasure, Your Majesty.”

The King’s head bent, indicating that this was his pleasure and also his
express command.

Mitch bowed, in his own somewhat saturnine manner, and went away.

“Oh, but my _party_!” cried Maggie softly. “My poor, poor party! Oh, I
_beg_ your pardon.”

Jaylia said, “If I may be excused, Your Majesty? I must tell my maid to
pack quickly. Perhaps I could, then, help with the party?”

“My dear, you _could_, indeed,” said Maggie, as if the world had just
been saved.

“Wait,” said Gorob rapidly in the King’s own tongue. “Your Majesty, I
must give warning. A woman has been knifed in this house. The Doctor has
blood on his linen. They are all concealing this fact. It is a woman of
the household. Would it not be desirable to let the Prince require the
women to come here, that he may thank them?”

The King rose. His eyes were cold. “What has this to do with us?” he
said sharply, in the other tongue. Then he said to Jaylia, in English,
“Indeed, you must be ready.” This dismissed her. Jaylia left, invisibly
curving under her stiff golden gown.

“But the maid . . .” Gorob began to plead. He was thinking, Suppose it
is the maid, one of ours, who has been injured? They would not wish this
known. “If I may ask that the maid come here . . .”

The King said, in English, “You are rude.” He said to Maggie, “I am
sorry for this embarrassment to your party, madame. I shall go down.
During this time of waiting, perhaps Al Saiph may also greet your
guests.”

“Oh, that _is_ kind,” glowed Maggie, “so kind of you, Your Majesty, to
understand what this means to me.” (As silly a society hostess as had
ever walked a stage, was she.) “Saiph, my dear, you must know how much
everyone wants to see you, if only for a little, little minute. Oh, I
_am_ sorry that you will miss most of the party. Could we not
send—something with you?” Maggie’s lashes seemed to be batting at
thoughts of ice cream.

Saiph leaned forward, his face alight. He said, “May I have Tamsen?” He
was not making a request. He was giving forth, from a position of
privilege, and with some boyish glee besides, a royal command.

“I will inquire, Your Highness,” said Maggie gently.

“Who is this?” asked Gorob. Maggie’s mask had slipped only a little, but
he sensed something.

“A friend to me,” said Saiph, arrogantly. “Don’t be rude.”

The King sat down again. So Duncan Tyler left his listening-post in the
passage and walked into the vacuum Maggie had left behind her. “So
you’re going to leave us?” he said to the boy, after his nod had done
honor to the King.

“I hope I shall be going home,” said Saiph. “Not that I have been
unhappy here. Will Tamsen mind coming with me to the hospital and
missing the party?”

“I’m sure she would much rather celebrate with you,” said Duncan. Then
to Al Asad, who seemed to be sitting very still, “My wife is putty in
his hands, Your Majesty.”

“Explain,” said Saiph. “This is an idiom?” Then to his grandfather, he
added, “I have been studying the idioms, you see, sir.”

Colonel Gorob was looking stiff and sour. Trivialities, he thought. When
we should be searching for the woman. . . .

                 *        *        *        *        *

In the Judge’s room, Tamsen was on her feet, in a white dress that
belonged to Maggie. Phillida had been circling her with a mouthful of
pins, tucking and fitting and creating. Now she was hooking the bracelet
on Tamsen’s left wrist to a brooch that was fastened at her waist.

“Makes a bit of a sling, anyhow.” Phillida put a small white satin
evening purse into Tamsen’s left hand. “Can you hold on to this?”

“Yes, but I can’t do my hair,” said Tamsen matter-of-factly.

“I’ll fix.” Phillida began to take down the dark disarrayed tumbling
tresses. “Now, if you must move suddenly, and that dressing begins to
feel icky, keep your back to some wall. Hah, brilliant thought! Let’s
have your hair down.” Phillida turned gentle. “Honey, can you do this?”

“Of course I can,” said Tamsen. “I can do anything.”

Maggie opened the door softly. “Can you come now, Tamsen?”

“Yes, all but my hair.”

“Then will you come? That Colonel is on to something. Saiph is helping
us, God bless him. You’ll see. We must simply exhibit you boldly and get
that over.”

“Yes,” said Tamsen, “let’s get that over.”

So, after Phillida had whacked a brush swiftly down her hair, Tamsen
went walking beside Maggie into the passage, and along it to the boy’s
room, which looked as if nothing had happened there. She gave Duncan one
quick look and saw his face go fond and proud. She was lifted into
perfect confidence. Nothing _has_ happened, she said to herself.

The white dress came high to the base of her neck. Her own fall of dark
hair was another cover for the wad of surgical dressing over the raw
place where the knife had scraped her skin away. Forget it.

Maggie was cooing respectfully, “Your Majesty, may I present my little
daughter-in-law, Tamsen Tyler, who has been your grandson’s loving
playmate all this while.” (A sentimental old fool, she was.)

“Your Majesty,” said Tamsen, bending only slightly from her waist. The
effect was gravely ceremonious. She gave the old King, those piercing
eyes, one shy glance of her own. Then she turned toward the boy. Her
back must now turn part way toward the King and the other man. She had
not even glanced at the other man. She said to Saiph in her soft manner,
but somehow jauntily, “I’m glad the Doctor thinks you are well. But I
don’t _like_ saying good-bye and spoiling the whole party.”

Saiph laughed. “Oh, you look very pretty, Little-Girl-Thomas,” he said
teasingly, “all dressed up in a party dress. But _you_ can’t stay at the
party, either. You must come with me to the hospital.”

“Oh, must I?” Tamsen was gay. “Phooey—that same old hospital?”

Inga rose and spoke from her corner. “May I say—please? Mrs. Tamsen
cannot go in such a party dress. May I, perhaps, lend her a uniform?”

“Very good, Inga,” said Saiph at once. “Yes, she shall wear a uniform.
And she must be ready _quickly_.” This was an order. “Because I must go
downstairs, now. Let Kasim and Hayyan come,” he said with his chin up.

“Yes, indeed, Your Highness,” said Maggie, as she curtsied.

Al Asad seemed to be hiding his mouth under his palm. With a rustling of
robes, he rose. Tamsen was already vanishing with Inga into the dressing
room, as unmannerly as an excited child who was “going somewhere.” The
Colonel, who had dismissed her almost at once as more child than woman,
said to his old master, “Should we not discover what woman . . .”

The King’s hand moved half an inch and the Colonel shut his mouth. There
was, then, one moment when the King and the hostess stood side by side,
both intending to go through that open door. It was the King who bowed.
So Maggie, crowned again, went gracefully before him. Their Majesties
walked sedately together toward the stairs. Colonel Gorob, red in the
face, stalked behind.

Al Asad did not seem to be trusting him as he should, and Gorob was no
longer trusting Maggie Tyler. She was not what she seemed, he had
concluded crossly, whatever she was.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan Tyler, yearning toward that dressing room, said to the boy,
“What’s eating on the Colonel?”

“He says that there has been a woman wounded with a knife.” Saiph’s
voice was calm and his face composed. But his left hand was holding his
right elbow, now.

“Nothing of the sort has happened here,” said Duncan.

“Of course not,” said Saiph, without even a hint of mischief. “‘Eating
on him?’ That is an idiom? Or is it slang?”

Duncan silently studied him. A boy of eleven, who wore a knife at all
times.

“I shall ask Tamsen,” Saiph said, suddenly sunny. “Ah, Tamsen, she is
very foolish.” The boy was giving Duncan what might be a man’s look.
Foolish heart-driven women. As if a man is not prepared, and would not
prefer, to protect himself. Yet, in this foolishness, we must sometimes
indulge them. “I will take care of her,” said the Prince of Alalaf.

Duncan bowed and went (dismissed) away. He took no offense against the
boy for his attitude. He couldn’t kid himself that he understood this
boy. When Duncan could not even speak the language, how could he read
the idioms? Behind the words would be centuries of thoughts—as strange
or stranger. If Duncan thought that Saiph “ought” to have expressed
gratitude, and then regret, it was only that Duncan himself “ought,” in
the same circumstances.

Duncan simply felt that it was time Saiph went home.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Tamsen, standing in the dressing room, with shafts of pain running down
her left arm while Inga pinned up the extra length of the uniform
together with the extra length of the party dress, worn underneath,
thought that she was looking very well in that mirror.

“Can you braid my hair and pin it up?” she asked.

“Yes, madame.”

“Yes, of course you can,” said Tamsen dreamily, considering the kind of
ballet that was going on in this house, a swift cue-snatching
improvisation among many people. Improvisation on a theme, and each
member of the corps entrusted to come in smoothly, wherever needed, in a
pattern that had never been designed, but simply grew. How lovely! she
thought.

Something had happened to Tamsen, with the pain and the bloodletting.
She had in some way, now (at last), been punished. So she was not guilty
anymore. She felt free and not afraid.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Lurlene stood at the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t know where they
had put Rufus, to sleep it off or whatever, but she herself was
beginning to feel miserably out-of-place. She had better locate him.
After all, he was her husband. This was the fact that made Lurlene a
Tyler. Maybe he was O.K. by now. Maybe he would go with her, to meet
this king.

Then the sight of such descending splendor—a King _and_ a Queen—sent
Lurlene turning away and scurrying back towards the garden side.

Phillida was just gliding through the lanai. “Oh, Lurlene,” she said,
“I’ve been hunting for you. I believe you are wanted.”

“It’s about time,” said Lurlene thickly.

Phillida took her arm, quite firmly, and they went through the lanai and
all the way to the kitchen.

“Back stairs, eh?” Lurlene muttered, resisting that hand. Phillida said
lightly, “Why not? They’re for the family.”

So Lurlene went along.


                                   20

Inside the big room, Jaylia had been attracting all eyes, until Al Asad
reappeared with Maggie. Then all eyes were busier than ever. The party,
which had bogged down for a while, seemed to revive.

In some mysterious way, everybody suddenly knew that there was now going
to be a little pageant. Into the frame of the archway came two young
men, in Western clothing, with Eastern faces, very stiff to their duty.
They opened the curtains, as it were, and then, walking slowly, but with
ease, there came the white-clad, stunning little figure of the Prince of
Alalaf. Almost no eyes looked anywhere else.

The Judge, who had instinctively put out his hand in greeting, made
nothing of the boy’s evasion of a handshake. Customs differ. Besides,
Mitch was authoritatively, and even fussily, guiding the boy to a big
chair in the large room. Saiph’s young voice, in its American-flavored
English, began to chat gravely and charmingly with what privileged
persons could wiggle themselves near enough to see and to hear.

Both choosing to be ignored, Maggie, and the old man who was a king,
stood apart. “May he live forever,” she said, softly.

Al Asad said coolly, “My aide, Colonel Gorob, insists that a woman has
been wounded by a knife, in this house.”

“Whatever can he mean?” said Maggie, seeming almost absentminded.
“Nothing untoward has happened here.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Elsewhere in the room, the Colonel, although he was fuming, continued to
notice everything. Al Asad really ought to trust the Colonel, who was
convinced that _something_ was being concealed. He was bound he would
discover what it was. This was his duty, toward at least one of his
masters.

He noticed when an ambulance had drawn up quietly outside, as Sam came
to inform the Doctor of its arrival. He noticed the figures of two women
come quietly down the stairs and stand to wait, beside the study door.
They both wore white uniforms and fingertip-length blue capes over the
white. Gorob knew all about _them_. The taller one was the boy’s nurse;
the shorter one was that little Tyler girl. Whatever woman had been hurt
in this house, she was well-hidden, somewhere else. Upstairs, he judged.
It must be so. Al Asad should have believed him. Gorob was becoming a
little confused, between two masters.

Tamsen could feel her back on fire, but it was well-hidden, now. The
Doctor was allotting only a very few minutes for this ceremony. Already
he was beside Saiph. The way was being opened. Saiph, whose arm must be
on fire, was walking toward the hall. He did not smile at Tamsen nor she
at him. It didn’t seem necessary.

The Doctor had scurried to the front door and now was letting in (of all
things and in what cold blood!) a pair of news photographers.

Saiph eyed them aloofly. He turned back to face the people, who were all
watching, with Al Asad front row center.

Prince Saiph made a graceful farewell speech, regretting his departure
from the party, thanking his doctor, and every member of the Tyler
family, who had been so very kind to him. Still, he wanted to go home.
His smile illuminated his small face and all his charm went radiantly
forth. His audience was almost moaning with delight. The cameras
flashed, again and again; the men, crouched low to the floor almost
under the King’s feet, were gleeful because they knew “heart” when they
saw it. Happy emotion was running high. Even Maggie Mitchel Tyler (Look!
Look!) had her handkerchief to her eyes.

The Prince spoke, in a foreign language, one sentence directly to his
grandfather. He made a slight bend of his head, very like the old man’s
own mannerism. Then, walking steadily with great poise and dignity, and
followed by his entourage, the Prince departed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan Tyler, who had twitched aside one window hanging, was watching
the driveway from the passage above. He saw, in the lightning of flash
bulbs, how the Prince refused to be lifted. (And no wonder.) Saiph
entered the ambulance. Inga climbed in, close behind him. Kasim and
Hayyan spryly followed her. In a moment, the driver made the vehicle
begin to creep softly, as motorcycles began to roar and the police
escort took position.

Next, behind the ambulance, was Mitch’s car and Duncan saw his brother
help Tamsen (knowledgeably) into the front seat, as a gentleman should.
Then Mitch went around and got in to drive. His car, too, was
encompassed within the escorting noise.

Cameras tried for some last interesting shots as the procession moved.
Then it was gone.

Duncan blew out his breath in one long sigh and went back into his
father’s room.

“Say, you better tell me pretty soon, what’s the big idea,” said
Lurlene, lifting her head from his father’s pillow as if her head might
weight a ton. “How come Phillida dumps me down? Listen, I . . .”

“You’ve had too much to drink,” said Duncan calmly. “So the party’s
over.”

“What do you mean, the party’s over?”

“For you, I mean. The King of Alalaf doesn’t care for drunken women.”

“You . . . you . . . you . . . got some crust, you Tylers.” Her head
fell back and it began to roll. “You don’t care _what_ you do, do you?”
she muttered.

Duncan, who cared what he did, hated to do what he now must. “Things
being as they are, may as well have a little nightcap,” he said to this
woman, as agreeably as he could. “Care to join me, Lurlene?”

“Drink, yah! Might as well be drunk as the way I am,” she mumbled. “Oh,
_I_ never was going to get to meet this King. Oh, I see that now.
Phillida, first, she puts me with that stupid who-ever-she was. Oh, I
_get_ it! I’m the . . . I’m the”—triumphantly Lurlene found the
words—“I’m the skeleton in the woodshed.”

Well, thought Duncan, no, not quite. That cupboard is occupied. He put
the pills that had come from Mitch, through Phillida, into a glass.
Could not have Lurlene blundering about. Could not afford the risk.
Whatever she knew, she could not know enough. Yet, what she did not know
made her dangerous.

Oh Lord, what shall we do with the incompetents of this world, in this
one of Your years? With the unteachables—the ones who can’t, and the
ones who could-but-won’t, the ones who do not mesh into the whirls of
the wheels as they turn, nowadays? What shall we do when they knot up,
in personal grievances, unaware of much too much, yet aware of enough to
make them both miserable and dangerous? Make mobs of them? Exploit?
Manipulate? No, no. We have said that they must each be understood and
each valued for what he is. That is our civilized position.

And so we thought we had done, with Rufus. _We_ believed it. But did he?
Oh, he used to. Surely, he used to. But somewhere along the line . . .

Meantime, what am _I_, in my well-educated, intelligent and civilized
wisdom, doing right now? Duncan’s mouth was wry as he held the glass to
Lurlene’s lips.

So much for love and understanding. There had come a time when it was
either too late or too soon. Too risky, at the moment, to try it on. And
no faith to ask for it.

Lurlene bridled and slobbered, but she took a little.

“What’s so great about this prince?” she mumbled.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s back in the hospital. Just a checkup before
he goes home tomorrow. Relax, why don’t you?”

Her head rolled.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Tamsen was leaning forward to spare her back the back of the seat.

“O.K.?” Mitch was speeding them along, inside the armor of the noise.

“Something’s wearing off, I guess,” gasped Tamsen. “But I’ll make it.”

“Howl. You’re entitled, and it’s safe for ten minutes, at least.”

“No, no, better not.” She _could_ have howled, all right, but once
begun, could she stop?

“I hope the King gets out of there, right fast,” Mitch growled.

“Why?” Tamsen tried to switch her attention.

“Because I’ll be going back to see after Rufus.”

“He _was_ knocked out. Do you think his head . . .”

“Knocked out, momentarily,” Mitch said, “and perhaps.”

“_Perhaps?_” Tamsen felt astonished.

“I’m inclined to think he wasn’t much hurt. I ought to examine him more
thoroughly, of course.”

“But . . .”

“Duncan hit him, too. Even so, he wasn’t unconscious (in the usual
sense, that is) when I first saw him. I’m fairly sure he was possuming.
Oh, I put him in a state to snooze a while. Couldn’t trust it. But I can
believe that when he fell, he possumed out on the whole business, then
and there.”

“Because he had failed again?” she gasped.

“Because he couldn’t think what else to do, in the fiasco,” said Mitch
grimly. “God knows what the inside of his head is like. He had bumped
the outside. That would have been a suggestion.”

“That’s—awfully sad,” she said in a moment.

“You bet. It’s sad I didn’t listen to _you_ harder. Sweetie, you
busybodied considerable tonight. Do you realize you might have got that
knife in the eye? In the throat?”

“So might Rufus,” Tamsen said, wonderingly.

“So might Saiph have got a bullet in his vitals. I guess we better get
profound,” drawled Mitch, “and say to ourselves, ‘It might have been
worse.’ Can you walk briskly, on your own two feet, all alone, as far as
the elevator?”

“Of course,” she said, absentmindedly.


                                   21

Upstairs, Duncan remained on guard. This was his function. There was no
one else to do it. Mitch had gone, having functions of his own. And the
Judge was both unaware and unavailable.

Downstairs, as the party continued, the Judge was absorbed in his own
problem. Al Asad did not wish to leave without the few words promised
him. Yet the Judge was not sure he ought to risk this conference. The
most secluded gathering must arouse the curiosity of this spy, however
it was managed. The Judge felt that he could fool the guests, but not
the enemy. Meanwhile, the party was lasting too long.

Then the Judge observed a most fortunate happening and he began to sift
through the throng, dropping a word here and there.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Upstairs, as the party continued too long, too long, Duncan found
himself on edge with nerves. He had checked on Rufus, who seemed still
dreaming whatever dreams might be in that sorry head. Lurlene was now
snoring. Duncan covered her. At last, he was able to convince himself
that the King surely would leave soon, at which moment he, Duncan, ought
for his manners to show up and say a brief but courteous farewell. He
could lock the door to his father’s room.

So he did that, from inside, and slipped out through the small door that
led into his mother’s room, where he neatened himself, and then came out
into the passage and the upper stair-hall. And went discreetly down.

The party, still a stand-up party, was milling gently. Al Asad was still
there, seeming rooted, not contemplating departure. Duncan was trying to
figure out how he could say a graceful good-bye to a guest who wasn’t
going yet, when Jaylia in her own way summoned him to her side.

She said, “I am sure we shall be leaving tomorrow. If I don’t see
Tamsen, will you tell her how grateful I am? For this, tonight, too. It
was darling of her to go.” Her eyes were asking if all was well.

“I’ll be glad to tell her,” he said, smiling to answer that all was well
enough, so far.

Sam appeared with a tray and Duncan took refreshment. He then became
aware of a presence at his back. Al Asad, with entourage (not Gorob,
however), had made his way to them.

“I have been told that the young lady, your wife, has been most kind to
Al Saiph.” The King was gracious.

“She has enjoyed it, every minute, Your Majesty. She is devoted to him.”

“She seems very young,” the King said. But lights went out in that face.
Duncan had not answered some other question.

What was going on in that mind, behind those eyes? Duncan didn’t know.
He felt as if he were pinned here. He knew that he ought to get away and
go back to his post, yet how could he get away? People had shifted,
drawing to stand politely a few feet apart, yet constituting an
audience. “She is not as young, perhaps, as she is able to look,” Duncan
said. He started to ask if the King knew that Tamsen was a painter. But
he remembered, in time, not to do so, there being a religious prejudice.
He didn’t know what remark he could throw into the silence to alleviate
the King’s faint whiff of ennui. Those eyes were scanning the room now.
“Ah,” the King said, very low.

Duncan saw that the Judge was making his way toward them, rather
purposefully. “May I interrupt, Your Majesty?” said he. “There is a
phone call for you, personally. Will you take it in my study, sir?”

Al Asad’s head bowed assent. The Judge led. The King followed. The
King’s men followed him. The people shifted to let them pass.

“From home, perhaps?” said Jaylia. Her eyes met Duncan’s with momentary
uneasiness. Then she moved only slightly, but somehow invited the
people, indicated that she was available. The women might chit-chat. The
men might gather around, but mustn’t touch. . . .

So Duncan slid easily away from this new grouping. He was thinking,
Well, she does things _her_ way, but not to _me_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Judge paused, with his hand on the knob of his study door. “This may
be private, Your Majesty.”

Al Asad spoke to his followers. One man turned his back to the door as
if to station himself on guard. But the other one followed Al Asad as
the Judge bowed them through. The Judge must put up with this. (He
didn’t mind. He had spotted Colonel Gorob, ten minutes ago, as that man
had been walking softly up the stairs. That was when the Judge had
gotten busy.)

The four quiet Americans seated inside his lair all rose, ready for
serious business. “Ah,” said the King.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Zora was half in tears. “But I do not know,” she wailed. “I do _not_
know.”

The Colonel had pounced upon her in the midst of all the packing. Many
pieces of luggage were scattered about and heaps of feminine apparel
were there to be sorted. Zora did not seem to understand what he wanted
of her. He had her by the wrist and she was twisting and writhing (as he
shrewdly observed) as if she knew no pain would result from this frenzy.

“No blood? No knife? No woman hurt?”

“No, sir. No, I have not heard of this.”

“Tell me,” he said. “Who are the women of this household?” “There is
Mrs. Tyler, the elder—”

“The hostess. Yes. Yes.”

“And there is Hilde—”

“Who is she?”

“Oh, she is the cook and—”

“_Where_ is she?”

“She is below,” Zora whimpered. “She has much to do. Chloe is helping
her.”

“Who is Chloe?”

“Also a servant—of the younger Mrs. Tyler.”

“What Mrs. Tyler is this?”

“Mrs. Doctor.”

“Describe her.”

“She is very tall and wears the beautiful green.” Zora used her free
hand to indicate a slimness at the hips.

“Hah,” said Gorob. He knew it could not be _that_ woman. _Her_ question
had enlightened him in the first place.

“Now who else? Come. There is a little one, with the long hair.”

“Mrs. Tamsen, yes, sir.”

“Who is _she_?”

“She is the wife of the young son. She comes every day. She comes to
play games with Al Saiph. They are children together.”

“So I gathered,” said Gorob, sourly. “Who else?”

“There is a Mrs. Tyler I do not know.”

“Who is _she_?”

“The wife of the other son.”

“A third son?”

“Yes, he came to this house one day only. I do not—”

“Where is he now? Is he here?” Gorob was not really concerned about a
male.

“I have not seen him. I think he does not come here often.”

“Where is this third—fourth Mrs. Tyler?”

“I cannot know whether she is here,” Zora said, “I do not know how she
looks.”

“What other women, then?”

“No others, sir.”

“That cannot be.”

“Please, I have so much to do.”

“Who is in the other rooms, up here?”

“No one. I think no one. I do not know.”

“Get on with it,” he said abruptly and let her go.

Zora was obviously perfectly whole. Not she, then.

Gorob went on to the end of the west wing, looked into the smaller room,
where Zora slept, and into a storage place. No one there. But he felt
sure that he was right and he meant to vindicate his intelligence, prove
his zeal, and maintain his trust-worthiness. He began to open doors
along this passage. Mere cupboards. Finally he came back into the
stair-hall and stood there a moment, listening to the party sounds
wafting upward. He glanced along the center block. Everything was
silent. Two doors, both closed. The Colonel began to walk that way. He
had always been inclined to be thorough.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan was already edging toward the hall when Maggie caught him. “Oh,
there you are, dear,” she said. “Have you seen Colonel
(what’s-his-name?) Gorob?”

“No, I haven’t, Maggie.” Duncan was able to sound casual. “He is not
with the King, is he?”

“No, he is not,” Maggie joined him in anxiety, without sounding anxious.
“Sam, please?”

“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Tyler?”

“Have _you_ seen the colonel with the uniform?”

“Yes, ma’am. I think he went upstairs a while ago, Mrs. Tyler. Five or
ten minutes ago.”

People were hovering to pounce on Maggie. Duncan said, “Hoo, I bet he’s
got himself lost, looking for the conveniences.” He patted his mother’s
arm, as the Judge so often did. Then he went upstairs, faster than he
seemed to be going.

“Oh, Maggie,” he heard someone say, “I haven’t had a chance to tell you
what a lovely party—”

“My dear, you are an ornament to it.”

“The King’s had a phone call? From Alalaf?” The guest sought exciting
inside dope.

“Ah, well,” said Maggie, “there is a time difference. Perhaps it is
office hours there. Come, have you met . . .”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan huffed and stopped himself at the top of the stairs to listen to
the air up here. He heard nothing. He went quickly to his mother’s door
and inside. The small door to his father’s room was open and shedding
more light than he had left in there. His toes curled within his shoes
as he went softly across to look in.

Colonel Gorob was bending over a sodden-looking Lurlene on the bed. He
had stripped her dress lower, to expose both plump shoulders.

Duncan roared and jumped in.

The Colonel straightened and gave him an icy glare.

Duncan said, “Please leave this room and this floor of this house. You
have no business here.”

Gorob smiled nastily. “You don’t understand,” he said in condescending
tones.

“I’m afraid I do. I find you in a bedroom, undressing a sleeping
woman—”

“Oh, come,” said Gorob. (This was, he remembered, an adolescent
nation—still as fearful and worshipful of sex as a thirteen-year-old
who has just heard of it—but it did seem ridiculous, in the moment.) “I
am responsible,” Gorob began, “for the safety of the King. I have reason
to believe that something very strange has happened in this house. It is
necessary for me to know what has happened. If you will simply enlighten
me, then.”

“I can enlighten you as to what is _going_ to happen if you do not get
out of here, right now.”

“Mr . . . Tyler, isn’t it?” The Colonel was patient. “I have realized,
for some time past, that you are all concealing an incident of some
kind. What is wrong with this woman?”

Lurlene’s eyes had popped open. They were frightened and puzzled, but in
a minute her mouth would open. Duncan might have to wrestle this man out
of here, by force. But that would tear it, as quickly as anything. The
house was surrounded by police. There must not be a row.

His mother spoke, behind him. “Will you please,” said Maggie’s coolest
voice, “explain this to me? Both of you?”

“It has become my duty,” said the Colonel stiffly, “to search this
house.”

“My house? Without my permission?”

“Where the King is,” said Gorob, with pomp and pity, “can no longer be a
private dwelling.”

“Let me deal with him,” Duncan said. “Let me just throw him down the
stairs on his—”

“I must then see that His Majesty is informed—”

“Out of the house, entirely,” roared Duncan, “and if His Majesty doesn’t
like it, let him go back where he came from, too.”

“Then,” said Gorob, unimpressed by roaring, “I must ask the
American—police, are they not?—to inquire what woman has been knifed
in this house.”

Duncan felt as if he were strangling.

But Lurlene sat up, clutching to her breast the coverlet that Duncan had
thrown over her. “_What_ woman!” she said thickly. “What does he mean?
_Knifed!_ Who is this man? What’s the big—”

“Hush,” said Maggie. She went to Lurlene and touched her hair,
caressingly. Lurlene’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Oh, listen,
Maggie . . .”

“Hush.” Maggie was using magic. Lurlene hushed.

“Colonel Gorob,” said Maggie cuttingly, “do what you like, anywhere
else. But you will not, in my house, disturb a woman who is ill and
unhappy.”

“What,” said the Colonel, “is her illness?” He could not believe that
_this_ woman had been knifed. But he was ever thorough.

Duncan had reached the lamp and turned it low again. “Go on. Get out.”

“I realize,” the Colonel said, “that you do not recognize my authority.
I quite understand. I may seem to have exceeded what is proper for a
guest. But my concern must be His Majesty’s security. I believe that
this is also the concern of the guards who surround this house? Perhaps
they have the authority to conduct the necessary search. I shall speak
to them. I shall suggest that they look for bloodstains. I have already
seen a trace of blood on Doctor Tyler’s cuff. There must be others.”

He was backing away. If he told the guards, it would be disaster. But he
was not going the right way. He was backing toward the door to the
Judge’s dressing room. Where bloody towels were in the hamper, and a
bloody rug in a heap with Tamsen’s bloodied dress. But worse than that,
where Rufus Tyler lay bound and drugged in an unconscious knot on the
floor. If he looked in—disaster.

Well, Duncan was going to have to hit the man. He must calculate the
quickest way to be sure of knocking him silent, because a noisy row
would also be disaster.

Maggie’s voice struck across the room like a lance of silver. “Nonsense.
I don’t believe you. You must be looking for the traitor.”

The Colonel’s hand did not turn the doorknob. He turned his head.

“How silly of you,” said Maggie. “_He_ came with the King. We all know
he is in the house. He is one of you.”

“Traitor?” said Gorob, with interest. (For a moment, he did not apply
the word to himself.)

“Of course.” Maggie taught an ignoramus. “Alice Foster telephoned. In
fact, she is on the phone with Al Asad himself at this very moment. By
this time, she must be sure which one of you this traitor is.”

“I know nothing of this,” said Gorob stiffly. He began to walk toward
Duncan.

Duncan said, “I believe I have realized for some time past—Let me show
you down. And _out_?”

“I can find my way,” Gorob clicked his heels. “I beg your pardon,
madame.”

“I do not grant it,” said Maggie regally.

“Thank you,” said Gorob, not having heard her at all. He had other
things to think about.

When he had gone, the room was very quiet. Lurlene was silent from sheer
incomprehension. Duncan gripped Maggie’s shoulder. “Wow!”

“I don’t know,” said Maggie, with anxiety. “I don’t know. Your father is
in the midst of the conference. But I _had_ to . . .”

“Sure, you did.” Duncan went to open the door that had not been opened
by the colonel. He said over his shoulder, “Gorob will be getting out,
without any fussing with guards. He knows what’s good for him. That’s
O.K. I’ll stay with this pair, Maggie. You go on down. Hold the fort. It
must be almost over.”

Lurlene said, with belated indignation, “Say, who _was_ that guy? What
was he trying to do to me? I’m not sick. Why did you tell him I was
sick? What’s the . . .”

“There isn’t time,” said Maggie wearily.

“Time for what? Time to tell _me_ anything? Yah, you never tell me one
damn thing. How come you didn’t bother to tell me about my own husband?
How come you tied him up and you don’t even—What am _I_ supposed to
do?”

Duncan stared at her. Slowly, he turned his head and looked within the
dressing room. The light was sufficient. There were only some cut pieces
of the Judge’s neckties, scattered on the floor where Rufus had been
lying.


                                   22

Gorob went the wrong way in the upper passage, fleeing into the east
wing. He passed the room where the boy had been. It was still softly
lit. He noted that it was empty and in order. Nothing had happened
there. He continued to the back stairway. He came down into the space
just off the kitchen. He could hear the servants’ voices, cheerful and
busy.

He listened only a moment. Then he slipped out of the house by its back
door. A guard came out of the shadows instantly. “Yes, sir?”

Gorob said curtly, “I must leave.”

“Better be checked out, sir. Around front.”

“Of course.” Gorob turned to go around the sprawling house to the front
of it. There the police waited for His Majesty’s departing parade. The
TV people had gone, but there were some cameramen still, and there was
light. Gorob stood quietly in a shaft of shadow. A bit of commotion, at
the moment, made him wonder whether he could possibly slip past it. They
seemed to be swarming around a man in a dinner jacket. The Colonel had
never seen him before, and could not see him very well, at the moment,
either.

Rufus was blinking in the strong light.

“No, no,” he was saying. “Not yet. Not now. It isn’t finished.”

“Party still going on, right?”

“What about the King?”

“No, no,” Rufus was mumbling, “not the King. I’ve got to get on down to
the hospital. _I_ can get in. My brother . . . Doctor . . .”

“You’re not feeling so good, Mr.—uh?”

“I’ve got this headache,” Rufus said in a drone. “I took some pills.
They haven’t started to work yet.” He wasn’t being fascinating.

Somebody shouted. Gorob had been spotted.

“Well, listen, good luck, Mr.—uh,” said one of the inquisitors in a
spirit of general goodwill. (Yet who needed symptoms?) He scooted, with
the rest, into the new swarming gathering, now, around the Colonel.

“Is the King coming out now, sir?”

“How’s the party going?”

“How is the King feeling about the kid, I mean, the Prince?”

“Is it true, sir, that the Prince gets to go home tomorrow?”

“Or is there something wrong? Why did the Doctor . . . ?”

“What is this last-minute checkup?”

The Colonel raised his hand and said primly, “It is a checkup. We are
confident that Al Saiph will be able to fly home tomorrow. His Majesty
is pleased. The party continues. Would you excuse me? I am sent on a
small errand.”

“When is the King coming out?”

“I believe, soon,” said Gorob.

A policeman was now solicitous at his elbow.

“No, no,” said Gorob. “No escort is necessary. I am not royalty,” he
added with a thin smile. “But I wonder . . . A taxicab?”

“Come with me, sir,” said the cop. “I’ll get you a cab.”

“You are very kind.”

“Turn this way, sir?” yelled a cameraman.

“Don’t waste it,” said another. The Colonel wasn’t being fascinating,
either. He didn’t even _look_ like one of them.

The cop set off at a fast walk down the driveway toward the street and
Gorob followed.

(Someone had made a mistake. Perhaps it was he?)

Fifty yards away, down under a pepper tree, Rufus Tyler was climbing,
unobserved and unpursued, into his own car.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“You’re hurting me,” Lurlene was whining. “You let go. You quit that.
You’re hurting me.”

Duncan only tightened his hands on her wrists. “All right, never mind
your reasons for cutting him loose. Where did he go?”

Lurlene felt herself to be in the worst mess she’d ever been in, in her
life. She hated Duncan. She hated Maggie. She hated all the Tylers, and
the whole damn world. “Yah, but you tied him up,” she wept. “You tied up
your own brother. What was the big idea? That’s what I . . .”

Maggie said, sadly, “She is hopeless.”

“You don’t _know_ why?” Duncan barked. “You don’t know what Rufus did?”

“No,” she said, lying defiantly. “What did he do?”

“What does he intend to do now?”

“I don’t get the big—”

“You never will,” said Duncan furiously. “Lots of ideas are too big for
you. What is Rufus going to do? Where did he go? Stop squirming and
evading.”

Lurlene began to look sly. Thought he was so smart, Duncan Tyler. They
all thought they were so damned smart. But they were liars! Maggie was a
liar! She had just told that Colonel-Somebody one big fat lie, and
Lurlene had heard her do it. “You’re a bunch of damn liars,” she
shouted, furious in confusion. “That’s what you are. And I’m _not_ sick.
Or drunk, either.”

Duncan slapped her, hard.

“Don’t you . . .”

Duncan said, “I need you to talk. I’d a good deal rather strangle you,
and be done with it.”

Maggie said calmly, “He has more sense than to strangle you, Lurlene.
Did you let Rufus go and ask him _no_ questions?” Lurlene was scared,
real scared.

“_I_ didn’t know,” she whined. “I didn’t know he’d done anything. Only
there he was, moaning and all. And tied up. And that’s not _right_.” She
had found one moral position and she was going to hang on to it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

When she had awakened and found herself all alone in the Judge’s room,
and hearing some moaning going on, she’d been about scared to death.
(But what did _they_ care for that?) She had dared, finally, to sneak on
her stockinged feet and crack that door.

Rufus had said, “Cheap. Cheap. Cheap. Lousy bargain.”

“What, honey? What? What?” (Lurlene could remember now that she had
really felt concern.)

“Or else I put it together wrong. I don’t know too much about guns. It
looked all right.”

“Where is the gun?”

“I don’t know.”

“Listen, who did this to you?”

“They did. Where is my gun? Where is the boy?”

“Who? Who? The Prince?” Lurlene had known who. “I don’t know. Yes, I do.
They took him to the hospital.”

“Then when I shot, I hit him!” Rufus roused. “Is he dead?”

Lurlene had sat back on her heels and let her rage fly. “Oh, you dope!
You stupid idiot!” she had raged. “So you goofed. You couldn’t hit a
barn. You missed, as usual. He’s not dead. He’s going home, tomorrow.
You can’t do one thing . . . not one thing. . . .” She had sobbed. “O.K.
We’re getting out of here.” She had turned and hunted and found the
Judge’s scissors. “Or else, for once in your stupid life,” she had
raged, “you could go and finish what you started.”

She had cut him loose with much sawing. She had helped him to unsteady
feet. She had brushed him down with a rough hand. “The party’s still
on,” she had said, “and the King’s down there. So why don’t you go shoot
the King? Hah, no gun! You mislaid it. Yah!”

“I’m going to the hospital?” Rufus had said, weakly questioning.

“Augh, knock it off,” she had said. “You’re not going anywhere. Not
anywhere, in _this_ life. Not you.”

She had turned her back and walked out into the bedroom, but turning her
head, she had seen him fumbling around for his pillbox. And the hell
with it, she had thought. Born a dope!

Then he had come, shambling. “Don’t worry,” he had said. “I told you.
_You_ mustn’t worry. I promised.”

He had stood looking at her and Lurlene had been ready to scream—ready
to scream the roof down. Oh, _damn_! No matter what she said to him, or
what she did, this dope, this stupid idiot, this lemon in the basket, he
kept right on thinking he had to be in love with her. Didn’t he _know_?
Didn’t he _realize_? Times change.

“Yah, _I’m_ not going to worry, believe me.” She had been sullen. “Sure,
now your fancy family is going to come and get you into some jail.”

“No, no. Not yet.” Rufus had been, by then, at the door to the passage.
“How does this open?”

“My God, you can’t even work a door lock!” She had turned the little
latch on the inside of the bedroom door and opened the door for him.
“_I’m_ not . . .” She had stood there, on her stockinged feet. “Where do
_you_ think you’re going?”

He had looked at her and his mouth had turned into that little
chirruping silly smile. “In the pages of history,” he had mumbled.

Then what he’d done, she didn’t want to think about. He hadn’t tried to
kiss her, but he had touched her cheek and even as she recoiled, Rufus
had said, “I don’t matter. But you mustn’t worry, Lurlene. Honey-Lu?
Just remember. You were always the girl for me.”

Lurlene had shut the door, swiftly. She had listened and thought she
heard his steps going toward the back way down. She had remembered to
lock the door again, and scrambled back to the bed and felt so sick
she’d thought she was going to die.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Her heart was banging away at the moment. “So go ahead, strangle me,”
she whined up at Duncan. “Just because I couldn’t stand to see my own
husband . . . and _he_ cares about me. I mean, maybe nobody else does,
but _he_ does!”

Maggie said, in her cool voice that cut into Lurlene’s rising hysteria
and seemed to cut it down, “If Rufus had walked into the guards or the
police or the newspapermen, outside, wouldn’t we know it by now?”

Duncan let Lurlene go then. “It would seem so,” he murmured.

Lurlene couldn’t stand the look on his face. She said, “Oh, _you’ll_
hear!”

“What?” Duncan demanded.

But Lurlene had to remember _herself_. Wait. Wait. Wait. “I don’t know,”
she whimpered. “Nothing. Nothing. What’s the _matter_ with you people? I
didn’t do one bad thing. Nothing. Nothing. So torture me. Just go ahead.
Torture me.”

Maggie said, as if Lurlene did not exist, “I must go down, Duncan.”

“Sure enough,” he said. “Violence is stupid. That’s the civilized
premise.” His voice was back to normal. “I won’t strangle her.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Downstairs, it became apparent that the King was preparing to leave the
party. He had returned to the big room, flanked by his two cohorts, and
was speaking to the Princess. His phone call could not have been
upsetting. They did not seem excited. They seemed to be saying a
pleasant good evening to each other. They took all eyes.

The four men, who had conferred so briefly and quietly in the Judge’s
study, were now distributed among the guests. Only they knew that there
had been no phone call.

It was the Judge who noticed that the King’s third man had not yet
reappeared.

Maggie came floating down the stairs, all smiles, just as the Judge
started up. “What is it, William?” She put her hand on his arm, turning
him to walk down beside her. The Judge could feel a certain vibration in
her.

“Oh, it’s that colonel, Maggie darling. I saw him go up, a while ago.
The King seems to be thinking about leaving.”

“Oh?” said Maggie. Al Asad had seen her and was even now moving toward
her under full sail. So Maggie spoke to the Judge, but pitched her voice
to the King. “But Colonel Gorob just excused himself, dear. When I
happened to mention that His Majesty was on the telephone to Alalaf. I’m
quite sure he came down. I have the impression that he left the house.
You could ask.”

The King snapped some words to one of his men who immediately slipped
away through the front door into the clamor out there.

“I didn’t notice,” the Judge said, feeling lost.

The King came to his hostess and his host, to make his formal farewells.
His eye was frosty. He was very stiffly correct.

When his man slipped in again, with a word or two for the King’s ear, Al
Asad smiled with thin lips. He turned toward the big room to incline his
head very slightly to the entire assemblage there, dismissing _them_.

The Judge murmured to the other man, “I’m sorry that your Colonel Gorob
seems to have drifted off.”

“His Majesty has sent him on an errand,” the man said coldly.

“Oh, I see.”

The King, then, with entourage, departed. Outside, it was discovered
that His Majesty (who spoke no English) was too fatigued for a
cumbersome interpreted interview at this time. Al Asad wished to return
to his hotel at once. Motors began to stutter. The Judge and Maggie and
the Princess stood in the open door to wish their royal visitor
Godspeed. The royal visitor entered his limousine without a backward
glance at them.

The procession moved. Bulbs flashed. Motors snarled. Sirens wound up for
screaming.

When all of it had died away, the Judge closed the door of his house
against the suddenly silenced night. He saw the weariness that crossed
Maggie’s face and he patted her. “It went well,” he said comfortingly.

“I am glad, William.” She gave him a wan smile. Then she turned on her
hostess-ness and began to move among her guests, urging them please to
stay and, at the same time, clearly stating that the party was really
all over, now, and they might as well go home. The Princess, for her
part, had subdued her golden glow and seemed tired.

The Judge, saying farewell to what guests had been peculiarly his own,
had for some time felt his mild elation ebbing away. It wasn’t like
Maggie to have said what she seemed to have said that she had said. She
seemed to have warned off this suspected spy, and the King had not liked
that. Besides, _when_ could the King have sent Gorob on an errand? And
for whom, or what, had Maggie’s eyes been searching the very shrubbery
outside, and why had he continued to feel that vibration in her? Humph!

                 *        *        *        *        *

At last, at last the house was left to itself.


                                   23

Downstairs, the servants still chattered softly as they continued to
clear away the debris. Upstairs, in the west wing, Zora was still
frantically packing. Upstairs, in the Judge’s bedroom, the family was
still gathered, together with the Princess.

Since the party’s demise, several things had already happened.

Duncan had found out, by a few cautious questions to the guards, that
Rufus had left the grounds and so had Colonel Gorob. But in sequence,
and not together.

Dr. Mitchel Tyler had already come back to this room and gone away
again. Whatever dismay he had felt, to find Rufus missing, he had not
complained aloud, but in a series of sharp questions he had extracted
from Lurlene the information that Rufus _had_ been taking a drug, over
and above any doctor’s advice. Mitch had pried out of her a description
of the pills and what she remembered, or had ever known, of their
composition.

He had then given his opinion that Rufus, in all probability, was not
going to drop dead in the street, but he must be much addled in his
mind, his thought processes would be fuzzier even than normal, and his
actions therefore absolutely unpredictable. Rufus might, Mitch said,
simply fall apart, lose energy, and do nothing. “Except talk,” he had
added bleakly.

(Talk is all we need, Duncan had thought. “The civilized professor hit
me and tied me, hand and foot. The Doctor left me injured. In the
Judge’s house, a crime was hushed over. My mother, the actress, put on
an act and my talented and respectable sisters-in-law lied and lied,
under her direction. They drugged my wife.”)

None of this was said, at the time. Mitch had whisked off again, back to
the hospital where he would set up a kind of early defense line against
the chance that Rufus would come there.

Duncan had already telephoned to Ed Duveen, and certain other known
cronies, and with deep caution had asked in a vein of humorous wrath
that if his brother was there, would Rufus kindly come to the phone and
tell Duncan Tyler whether he had gone off with Duncan’s car keys.
Because if he had, he was darn tootin’ going to bring them back. Rufus
was not, and had not been, near any of those telephones.

Jaylia had already been called to the Judge’s phone to listen to Al
Asad’s decree. The royal plane was leaving somewhat earlier on the next
day than had been previously planned. His Majesty intended to be on
board at nine A.M. If the boy and his mother were there and ready, well
and good. But if, for some reason, they could not be, then they must
follow later.

No reason was given. Uncomfortable possibilities existed. Something they
knew nothing about was happening in Alalaf? The old King was scudding
before a storm that only he knew was breaking? Or something had already
happened here? If so, they knew not what or where. They were waiting for
a blow that may have already fallen.

Phillida was sitting with her hands clenched, and from time to time she
pounded her own thigh. Maggie was lying back in the Judge’s other
bedroom easy chair, looking fragile and exhausted. Jaylia had refused a
seat; she was too restless. At the moment, she was leaning against the
wall. Duncan was standing. He watched his father. The Judge was
standing. His long face was grave as he looked down at Lurlene, who,
disheveled, frightened, and on the defensive, was still half-lying on
his bed.

“This is very serious, Lurlene,” he was telling her, in his deep and
quietening voice. “You must try to understand, now. If it becomes known,
if the news is broadcast to the world, that Rufus,” the Judge kept his
voice from wincing, “attempted to assassinate Prince Saiph this evening,
there go any American hopes in Alalaf. But much more important, there go
some lives there. American lives, as well as others. Don’t you realize
that?”

“Well, but I mean, he _didn’t_. The kid’s O.K., isn’t he? I mean, _I_
didn’t even know a thing about it, so what did _I_ do wrong?”

The Judge was wondering whether Lurlene, in her state, even believed
that there was such a place as Alalaf, with living people in it.

“There was Tamsen, you see,” he went on, since he was not speaking
exclusively to Lurlene. It was useful to list things for the purpose of
arranging them in order, for the purpose of reasoning about them. “The
boy was wearing a knife. He threw it and hurt Tamsen. How do you suppose
_that_ could be explained, without saying that he threw it to protect
himself? And against what?”

“Honest, _I_ never . . . Listen, _I_ didn’t know Tamsen got hurt. I’m
sor-ry.” Lurlene’s “sorry” was a hostile whine. Why are you blaming me?
it said. Not _my_ fault.

The Judge, however, suspected that it was, in some degree, her fault.
“You didn’t guess what Rufus intended to do here this evening?” The
Judge sounded unimpassioned, still—but he would have liked the true
answer to this question. He felt that Maggie would, too. Only he could
know how Maggie felt. Only he knew how much this hurt.

“No,” Lurlene screamed the lie. “No. How could _I_ know?”

“These things were done—have been done,” said Jaylia restlessly.

“Yes.” The Judge sighed. But he went on. “Now that Lurlene has let Rufus
go, since we were not able to keep him here until we could in some way
find out how to help him—”

Yah. Yah, thought Lurlene. Tie him up! Sure. That’s a big help. Her face
turned sullen.

“Now that Rufus has gone off alone,” the Judge went plodding on, “he
will, most probably, either in the act of trying another assault of some
kind, or in collapse somewhere, tell the world all about what has been
done here. And when this happens, the consequences I mention may all
follow.”

(Worse than before, the Judge thought. Worse than before.)

“But he’s crazy,” burst Lurlene. “Didn’t Mitch say he’s practically
nuts? So O.K. So how come all this stuff has got to follow?” She used
the Judge’s word, one not natural to her.

Phillida said, “Damn! Mitch does such wonders! Oh, damn, damn and
_damn_!” Nobody hushed her. She hushed herself.

“There’ll be local consequences,” said Duncan, speaking as his father
had spoken, gravely, filling out the list so that reason could consider
the total situation, “for me, as well as for Mitch. I will almost
certainly be removed from my nomination, gently or otherwise. You may
not be on any more committees, Phillida. They may think better of naming
the theatre, Maggie, as you realize. The Judge won’t get his
appointment, of course. Rufus is a gone goose, one way or another. If it
gets really bad . . . I suppose Lurlene will be one of the most infamous
women.” He could no longer keep all anger out of his voice.

Maggie said wearily, “Oh, hush, dear. We know.”

But Lurlene was falling deeper into the mattress and a small alteration
was taking place on her mouth. Yah! she was thinking, that’s right. Hey,
_I_ get it! I see what Rufus was getting at. _I’m_ going to be the
famous one! Now she let herself know what she had known, already.

“Where did Rufus go?” asked Duncan for the nineteenth time.

Lurlene had told them, eighteen times, that she didn’t know. This time,
she didn’t even answer. Love takes strange forms, she vaguely mused. But
you had to admit, it kind of built you up. Oh, that poor _slob_! Still,
say Rufus was nuts. Lurlene wasn’t. And you might as well figure what’s
probably going to happen to you. _She_ could tell about his . . . uh
. . . career, and how his folks always . . . Well, no, now . . . Wait.
Everybody was going to see _that_, good and plain. Yah, the wonderful,
wonderful Tylers!

“We are bound to find out where he has gone, sooner or later,” the Judge
said with a certain dryness. He was glancing at his watch. “By the way,”
he added with a somewhat miraculous resumption of a twinkle, “I’m glad
you chose not to tell _me_ what aiding and abetting was going on over my
head.”

“There wasn’t time for pros and cons, William,” said Maggie. “Besides,
you had your part to play.”

Then she lifted her chin and her face announced, by a very suspicious
look at the Judge, a certain lifting of her spirits. “I’m sure you were
very good at it,” she said.

“Oh, I’m all right in a character bit,” the Judge said, chuckling.
Jaylia was turned toward him now, alertly. Phillida had lifted her head
and her hands were opening. Duncan himself suddenly ceased to despair.

“There is luck, you know,” the Judge said, because he was very old, he
had lived a long time. “Don’t forget that there are often surprises.
Good ones, as well as bad ones.”

“And time’s going by,” cried Duncan. “If they can just get away,
_before_ it blows!” He had forgotten Jaylia’s presence. He was including
her in the pronoun “they.” (They, the foreigners.) “_We_ could then
clobber Rufus, as insane. Which he is. Does Mitch know they’ve got to
make this plane early? I want to call the hospital. Who is going to
watch Lurlene?”

“I,” said Phillida promptly. “I’ll watch her, never fear.”

Duncan actually laughed. “O.K., Tiger,” he said and left the room. The
Princess watched him go.

Lurlene lay very low. “And like—he _was_ one of the Tylers, but he
married just a poor girl—and it was a real love story and always
faithful. . .” Tears were in her eyes.


                                   24

Colonel Gorob, riding in the third taxicab he had taken since he had
left the Tyler house, judged that he must have obscured his tracks
sufficiently. He was now proceeding to a spot within walking distance of
his real destination.

He was going to his new masters, or their local representatives. He had
not hesitated to run out on the old. That woman had obviously been very
sure of her information (which was correct, of course), and so had her
son been, and the Colonel putting this together with his earlier
suspicions that Al Asad had mysteriously ceased to trust him, was able
to decide, at once, not to risk staying around to be exposed, or worse.
In the first place, discovered and uncovered, he immediately ceased to
be of any use, there, to his new masters. In the second place,
imprisoned or dead, he would be of no use to anyone at all, including
himself. So he was going to his new masters, and he would lay the
situation before them and soften their sense of loss by presenting an
idea that might still enable him to save the day.

Meantime, Gorob pondered his mistake. He realized that it had not been
an error in reasoning, because he had not, strictly speaking, been
reasoning. He had made a bad guess. He had chosen, from four or perhaps
five remarks that one Tyler or another had made in his hearing, the
wrong three to put together.

“Guinea-pigs,” Duncan Tyler had said, “as in Guinea pigs.” Gorob was
still baffled by this. Guinea pig, in the American patois, meant
something to do with science, did it not? But science, as far as he
could see, was perfectly irrelevant. (Very annoying. But the Colonel
dismissed it.)

Now, he _had_ guessed (and not unintelligently, really) that some woman
connected with the household had been in that house this evening wounded
by a knife. But he had been wrong. He ought not to have eliminated the
_name_.

Gorob was now coming up with a revised guess that Alice Foster was, of
course, the “Alice” and that someone in Alalaf had finally got close
enough to that annoying and interfering old woman to sink a knife into
her. He was afraid, however, that she was not dead. He was inclined to
believe that she _had_ been on the telephone. That would be like her. It
was possible that her would-be assassin had been captured and induced to
tell too much. It was possible that he had been a fellow employee of the
Colonel’s and had _known_ too much. The Colonel felt disgusted. Still,
_he_ had not been captured. Hah, that woman, Maggie Tyler, had been
indiscreet, in the end.

But he must turn his mind to the future. His new masters must be served;
he must, in some way, substitute for his lost usefulness. But surely the
idea that had come to him was an effective service, even more valuable
than his original assignment.

They would be interested to hear—as the Colonel had been
interested—that, on the morrow, the old King and the young Prince would
both be traveling on one aircraft. If such an aircraft were to vanish
into the ocean—a fine place for vanishing, incidentally—affairs would
most certainly come to a sharp crisis in Alalaf, immediately. Not only
would his new masters find the ensuing confusion most helpful and no
doubt an opening, into which they could leap, but the Colonel himself
might retrieve his own hopes of power. For who else, as trustworthy as
he, had been trusted for so long in that country?

How could this be arranged? Gorob had no doubt that his masters could
provide the necessary device—within an hour or two, certainly—and he
had his unique usefulness to offer them. He, and only he, might be able
to enter, unchallenged, the King’s plane. Supposing that Gorob went at
dawn? He would appear to be inspecting, which would have been the
natural thing for him to do.

Of course, now that Al Asad would _certainly_ not be trusting him, there
was a good chance that airport authorities and the crew of the plane
would have been, by dawn, warned against him. In which case, the Colonel
not only could not plant an explosive, but he would be risking capture.
He knew very well that Al Asad would not trouble his royal head about
any American laws against violence or, for instance, kidnapping.

But there was also quite a good chance that no one would remember to
alert the crew of the plane. Gorob was the one who would have taken care
of that detail, and every other. Oh, the King was going to miss the
Colonel. The old man would not soon find anyone as conscientious and as
trustworthy as he had always been.

The old man would not have the time, for one thing, if all went in the
early morning as the Colonel now hoped it would. The Princess must, of
course, be included in the “accident.” Still, on the whole, it was as
well to be rid of a possible nuisance. Women! _American_ women! And if
Alice Foster isn’t dead, he thought, she ought to be.

He left the cab; he walked around a corner and down the block. The
street, in an old part of town, was residential, tree-shadowed. It was
difficult to find the numbers on the house. But the one he sought was
directly under a streetlamp, painted on a stone. The path grew darker as
he went, and he stumbled up the three steps to the door. He found the
bell and rang it.

After some exchanges, they let him in.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan Tyler finally had his groggy little wife on the other end of the
phone. “Hey, Mitch says _you_ think you’re going to the airport at eight
in the morning. Now, honey, you better not get too flossy.”

“Did Mitch give you the list?” she said, sounding a bit drunk, “My gray
seersucker suit and my old white coat. Makes me look like a hunchback,
anyhow. And shoes? Did I say shoes?”

“I’m not going to have you running around . . .”

“Well, who are you?” Tamsen was complacent. “When my doctor says . . .”

“_Not_ funny,” Duncan began severely.

“Pretty funny if I wasn’t there to see him off, after all the fuss.
_He’d_ understand but would _he_?”

Before Duncan could unscramble this, she said, “You don’t get the plot.
You’ll be there, won’t you? Hah, so then I get to go home with you.
Please bring the clothes,” she wailed, “or I’ll never get home again.”

“All right,” he said helplessly. “I’ll bring the clothes.”

“We have decided that I burned myself, you know, on a . . . Well, we
don’t know _what_, yet. What’s interesting? I mean, for the neighbors?”
She seemed to be rambling. Then she said sharply, “How is everybody? How
are _you_?”

“Fine. Fine.” He wasn’t going to tell her that Rufus was lost, that
Rufus seemed, or Mitch thought so, to have got as far as the hospital
and been turned away, long ago, and then had vanished again. This was an
anxiety he wouldn’t put on Tamsen for the night.

“Oh, Duncan, do you know what Saiph said to the King?”

Duncan could hardly force his mind to take this in. “What?”

“Ever since Inga told me, I’ve been laughing to myself.” She sounded
sleepily merry or merrily sleepy. She sounded on the yummy side to him.
He stifled his groan. “O.K. What did Saiph say to the King?”

“_See you later, old-timer._”

“What?”

“That’s the English. I can’t _imagine_ how it turned out, in another
language.” Tamsen was laughing. “I have struck a blow against an ancient
culture.”

Duncan emitted one hollow bark that must pass for mirth. “Go to sleep,”
he said.

“And hairpins,” said his wife.

“What? Oh, sure. Good night, honey.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Tamsen got the phone back on its cradle by dangling it and fishing for
its resting place. Inga had put the phone on the floor. Tamsen had been
speaking upside down, of course, in the suite’s second bedroom. She
dared not roll over to lie on her back. But so long as she did not do
that or move her shoulder blade too much, she felt quite comfortable.
The hospital had drugged most of the pain away for the night. Everybody
was fine and it had been quite proper for Duncan to worry. She smiled
and slept again.

Out in the sitting room of the suite, the two young bodyguards, who had
started up when the phone rang, lay back as her murmuring ceased. Hayyan
and Kasim knew, now, what had happened at the Tyler house. It had not
been feasible to keep it from them any longer. Inga had told them in
such a way as to make them not very anxious for any more people to find
out about it. Had they not been appointed bodyguards to the Prince? But
Inga said that the wound to his body was slight. It was nothing much.
Wiser to keep quiet. Otherwise none of them, Inga said, could go home
tomorrow. The two young men found themselves very eager to get along
home.

So in the hush of the suite, Inga, alone, was not lying down and not
intending to lie down. She had been quick to answer the phone in the
first place, that had rung so late by special dispensation. Saiph had
not been awakened. Inga had crept to waken Tamsen. Had crept back. Her
charge was sound asleep, and safe, for now. His wound (so trifling,
thanks to God) would heal. Inga would watch it. She would watch. She had
the gun that had been fired at him in her own pocket. She would probably
kill the next even slightly suspicious person who approached him. Now,
in the sleepy silence, Inga went into the bathroom and began to scrub
again. She scrubbed and she scrubbed, with patient care, to get the
stains out of the fabric of his gown. It was better that few knew. But
_she_ knew.

                 *        *        *        *        *

As the night wore on, the big house in San Marino was quiet, although
the guards (still there because of the Princess) could see some lights
still burning.

The apartment over the garage was dark. Hilde and Sam, having kindly
taken the trouble to pack up the belongings of the two bodyguards for
their departure tomorrow, were now abed. Chloe was long gone.

The light was up in the west guest room, behind drawn draperies. Jaylia
was checking over the packing, what was in, and what was left out, for
the morning. She was being rather picky and petulant with her maid,
Zora, who was dying for sleep. The Princess did not seem sleepy. She
seemed impatient to be on her way home.

The light was very dim in the east guest room, where Lurlene was asleep
in the bed that Saiph had occupied. Phillida Tyler, wearing a bathrobe
that belonged to the Judge (and very smart it was on her), sat in the
King’s chair in that room. She had not closed her eyes.

Maggie’s room was dark. Maggie was lying down, not sleeping but
restoring her energies in a way known to her of old, a system of
relaxing inch by inch, useful in conditions of stress.

Downstairs, the hall was lit and so was the Judge’s study, where William
Rufus Tyler sat, sipping now and again at a tall glass. He did not dream
of sleeping. He would wait up for whatever happened.

Duncan Tyler was there with him, simply because he had not been able to
leave his father, nor yet the place where news would surely come, when
there was any. He must go soon, to fetch Tamsen her clothes, if for no
other reason. There _was_ no other reason. Duncan would have felt better
in the body roaming the night, hunting and peering, expending energy,
but the brain decreed that this was no good, at all.

They had the TV set with them and had watched the eleven-o’clock news.
The big story at that hour had been that the Little Prince of Alalaf was
going home tomorrow. The hour of his departure had not been broadcast.
There had been a repeat of a tape showing the King arriving, with
entourage, at the airport, then a new tape of his arrival at the party.
There had been no mention, whatsoever, of Rufus Tyler.

Now Duncan told himself that it was wise to wait for the twelve-o’clock
news on radio, after which he must go. He clung to the hope that every
hour that passed without any news of Rufus was so much the better.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Judge was brooding, in silence.

What have we done to our son and brother? We loved him. (He was thinking
in the past tense and this seemed appropriate). Although Maggie had been
hurt and I, too, and often, Rufus never did set out to hurt anyone
before this. Or we never thought so. It hurt us that we had to help him
so much. It hurt us that we couldn’t help him more. _It_ hurt us, not
he, as the books say. Possibly the books are nonsense? But as far as we
knew, we loved him. He could have been sure of us all. Of his brothers,
too. Mitch was very fond. It is hard for Mitch to be patient, but he
shows devotion in other ways. Duncan was blunt with him, but free and
easy, and very fond. None of this seems to have been enough. What have
we . . .

The Judge caught himself going around again and wrenched out of the
groove. This was the sort of “thinking” one inevitably falls into. He
mused on another track. Supposing that one’s childhood home, and one’s
first family, can never be enough? A man, or a woman, may need another
home, and another family. And a grown-up place in the world.

Rufus had had Lurlene, only.

What if Rufus had married a different kind of woman?

What kind?

Such-as-Phillida could never have felt anything but live-and-let-live
for such-as-Rufus. Although, in charity, such-as-Phillida would have
seen to it that he was kept alive. And such-as-Tamsen basically despised
him. Had Rufus sensed as much? Poor little Tamsen. She tried so hard,
she gave herself away.

Then some very meek, truly meek woman? No. There tended to be an ego in
a marriage. At least one ego. Some strength.

Lurlene may have been the girl for him. . . .

The Judge now remembered the relief it had been, on past occasions, to
weep wet tears. But weeping? This he had out-lived, and the relief of
it, as well.

What have we done, or not done. . . .


                                   25

Duncan leaped to the phone at its first ring; his father’s hand warned
him not to pick it up too promptly. So he let it ring twice more and
then he was able to say in normal tones, “Judge Tyler’s house. Duncan
Tyler speaking.”

The caller announced himself as being a member of the police department.
He gave name, rank, and location. Lieutenant Dennison was calling from a
police station in the northeast section of the city.

“We have a Rufus Tyler here. His home number doesn’t answer. He’s acting
a little bit peculiar. Would some member of his family care to come
down?”

“Peculiar, how?” snapped Duncan. “Yes, of course, I’ll be down. But
what’s wrong with my brother?”

“Well, sir, at first we thought he was under the influence of alcohol.
But he became rambling and incoherent. It could be he is suffering from
some . . . uh . . . illness. So you had better . . . It would be a good
idea to come down.”

“How did he get there? Are you holding him? Was he in an accident?”

“No, no. He just walked in. We . . . uh . . . don’t know. I think you
had better come down.”

“Right.” The Judge, who had been listening too, shook his head when
Duncan mutely offered him the phone. So Duncan snapped, “I’ll be right
there.” And hung up.

His father was looking old and tired. “Save the big guns until we need
them, eh?” said Duncan. “I’ll go. If he is incoherent _enough_, we may
be all right. Let me grab your raincoat.”

Duncan turned away from the look on his father’s face and went leaping
up the stairs. He looked in and told Maggie, knowing that she would go
down to be with the Judge. Then he covered his party clothing with the
Judge’s black raincoat and tore out to his car.

Duncan’s spirits had risen, somewhat, because at least they knew where
Rufus was. Yet the policeman had spoken with an ominous hesitation. Or
rather, he had ominously refused to speak. Duncan knew he was going to
have to ad lib, and fast, when he got there. But action was such relief
that he felt in a swinging mood that could conquer anything, tell any
number of lies, act any part, and if Rufus had spilled the beans,
unspill them, for at least the rest of this night. And with what relief
he would take Rufus where he could spill no more!

Duncan found a place for the car. It wasn’t an elegant part of town. The
night was cool, as nights will be in an essential desert. Duncan went in
with the raincoat buttoned around him.

“Mr. Tyler?” A man got up. To Duncan’s surprise, he was in plain
clothes.

“I am Duncan Tyler. I spoke to _you_, did I?” Duncan looked around.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Tyler. Your brother has gone.”

“Where?” Duncan felt stunned. This cop’s eyes were not missing a thing.
Duncan stayed stunned.

“If we knew, we’d like to pick him up and bring him back. He must have
had a car. He’s not safe to drive, in my opinion.”

“Wait a minute. You had him here. You said he was ill. Now, you say he’s
not safe. I don’t understand how you happened to let him go.”

“We didn’t intend him to go. But we had no reason to lock him up, Mr.
Tyler. We knew you were on the way, and so did he. It looked as if he
was willing to wait for you. He was quiet. So when he asked for the
men’s room, it took a while for anybody to notice that he never came
back. Can you describe his car, sir?” the cop added smoothly.

“I’ll do my best, in a minute,” Duncan said, rubbing his head. “First,
I’d like to know what happened. Take it from the top.”

“Well, sir, he just came in, like a citizen with a complaint. Or a
report to make.”

Duncan rolled with the word “report.” “Go on,” he said.

“Gave his name to the desk man. Gave his father’s name, his mother’s
name. Made a point of who his family was.” The cop was watching Duncan
carefully.

“Yes, yes,” Duncan said impatiently.

“But then he started talking pretty crazy. I was called in on it. It
wasn’t a case of being drunk. He looked . . . well . . . worse than
that. At one point I thought he was going to pass out. I’ll have to ask
you if you ever suspected that your brother took . . . well . . . say
. . . goof balls?”

“I suppose anything is possible,” said Duncan gravely, gazing over the
man’s head. “But why did he come _here_? That’s what I can’t . . .”

“He said there had been a crime.”

Duncan said nothing. He simply stared. A thought of his mother crossed
his mind, unexpectedly.

“I . . . uh . . . took a few rough notes, anyhow at first. Let’s see.”
The cop had a piece of paper and he looked at it. “Said there had been a
crime. A ‘big important crime.’ Something about ‘kill.’ Something about
‘boy.’ ‘Kill.’ ‘Boy.’ And then ‘shot.’ Or ‘shots.’ ‘Wouldn’t let me
go.’” The cop looked up. “Then he started to . . . well . . . cry. But
he kept saying ‘don’t matter.’ That I remember.”

“‘Don’t _matter_’!” Duncan let himself be sharp.

“Well, I got the idea he meant that _he_ didn’t matter.
Like—frustrated?”

Duncan said, after a moment of blankness, “Well, it beats me. What do
you make of it?”

“He could have had a bad trip,” the cop said. “LSD?”

“I don’t want to believe that,” Duncan said restlessly. “How long since
he left? How far could he get?”

“Long ago and far enough,” the cop said ruefully, “that he’s not in the
neighborhood. About his car, sir?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right.” Duncan rummaged in his mind for the make,
model, and color of Rufus’ car. He announced that he did not know his
brother’s license number. The cop said that most people didn’t know
their own.

“Maybe he went home,” said Duncan suddenly. “I’ll run down there.
Perhaps find some record of that license for you.”

“Oh, we can get that in a very short time. Now . . . uh . . . your
brother is not, as far as we know, a suspect, Mr. Tyler. But he may be
dangerous to himself, and to innocent people. Would you . . . or your
father, say . . . advise us to pick him up?”

“Do that,” said Duncan decisively, with an air of relief. “And when you
do, call my father, please? I’ll be in touch with him, too.” Duncan
turned to go.

“What do you make of it, Mr. Tyler?” the cop said, rather stubbornly.

“I don’t make too much,” said Duncan heavily. “I can tell you this. His
wife took sick this evening. At least she . . . well . . . retired from
the party. Now, I don’t know what may have happened between them. You
see, the family was entertaining at somewhat of an occasion.”

“I heard about it,” the cop said. “Say, how is the Little Prince?” (The
Little Prince was this man’s darling too?)

“The boy?” said Duncan, deliberately using this word. “Oh, he is fine.
He has been O.K.’ed to fly home in the morning. Had you heard?”

“I heard it on the air ten minutes ago. So they took the tests already,
did they?” This cop was genial, but he had not stopped watching.

“They must have,” said Duncan cheerfully. “Anyhow, the Doctor has said
that he may go, and everybody’s happy.” He then caused his grin to be
wiped away. “My point was . . .” He frowned. “It’s possible that my
brother was more upset than any of us had time to notice, with the house
so full of guests. My sister-in-law is still there, you see. She’s been
put to bed. Whether her trouble is emotional . . . At any rate, my
brother was certainly out of the party mood for some reason, because he
left the house in the midst of things, without saying a word. I wonder
. . . It’s hard to believe that he could have been feeling depressed or
desperate enough to have taken something.”

“A serious quarrel, was it?” the cop asked, not believing in this very
much.

“I don’t know,” said Duncan. “But there was something. Must have been.”

“You don’t know about any crime, then?” The cop was obviously suggesting
that this could be the “something.”

“I don’t know what he would have meant by ‘a crime,’” mused Duncan. “A
lay person uses that word loosely.”

“Yes,” said Lieutenant Dennison, “but he said ‘important.’”

“It’s too bad,” said Duncan, careful to speak without suggesting
reproach, “that you couldn’t have got a clearer statement out of him.
I’m sure you tried,” he added with a quick smile that didn’t last. “But
the point now is—if poor old Rufus is in _that_ bad a way, I had damned
well better find him.”

“We’ll try to pick him up,” the cop promised. “If you and Judge Tyler
say so, I’ll get right on that.” But Duncan noticed that he was putting
his piece of paper, with the notes on it, very carefully away.

Duncan, however, thanked him crisply and went out. The night air made
him shiver. He did not know how well he had done in there, with his
hints of some marital crisis. He knew that he must hunt the streets, he
must race about the city after all. Call the Judge, first. Then try to
find Rufus before the police picked him up again. Because Rufus was
trying to talk, trying to tell, trying to confess. And he might not seem
so “rambling and incoherent” another time. Didn’t drugs wear off as time
went on?

Duncan had not gone three blocks before he gave up watching curbs and
parked cars and what few pedestrians had dared the darkness. It was
absurd to imagine that he could find his brother that way. This city was
the city-that-sprawled. Duncan had no idea of what route Rufus had
taken, to what destination. Both were multitudinous. So Duncan settled
to going along, as swiftly as was not conspicuous, toward the house
where Rufus lived, and perhaps now was.

The house was dark. Duncan parked at the curb and walked down the drive
toward the garage, his flashlight in hand. The garage doors were open;
there was no car inside. Duncan went up to the back entrance; the door
to the service porch was not locked. So he was able to stand within the
shelter of some walls and go to work on the back-door lock. He got in by
using one of his credit cards, in a hoary method well taught in fiction.
He was a little surprised that it worked.

Once inside, he boldly turned on the lights. He was Rufus’ brother,
after all. The small house depressed him. It was very neat and clean.
The only disorder was some trace, in the bedroom, of Lurlene’s having
dressed for the party in a hurry. But there seemed so very little trace
of Rufus here. No collection of pet objects, no pet books, no
accumulation of papers. No life?

How did he live? thought Duncan. What did he keep on his mind? Why don’t
I know? Was it my ever-loving duty to have snooped into his habits, to
have taken it upon myself to judge him for the way he used his
twenty-four hours a day? Then to have advised him? Or led him to
something more productive, more satisfying—satisfying to whom? His
tastes, and his needs, aren’t the same as mine. How shall I be wise for
him, and teach him his _life_?

The place depressed him, just the same.

Also, damn it, he thought rebelliously, some of us are busy. I want to
teach the front-runners, and learn with them. How much energy can the
race spare, to turn around and understand and straighten out and patch,
just to bring some people up to what? To average? Yes, Mitch does it,
brilliantly—but even to do that, some of us must go groping ahead into
the dark that’s in front of us. And in fear and trembling, too.
So-called successful people _can_ be the most harassed and miserable of
creatures. Why isn’t that known? Well, it compounds, I suppose. The very
ones who cannot are the ones who can’t imagine how it’s done. And there
we are.

(But this was my brother.)

He stopped his sorry thoughts and used the phone to call the Judge, who
had heard nothing. Duncan had given his father the news flatly, almost
an hour ago, and his father had taken it calmly. The Judge was still
calm. Maggie was fine, he said.

Duncan said he must now fetch Tamsen’s clothes, against the morning, and
change his own. He would call back soon again.

There was no point in staying here. If Rufus finally came here, he would
most probably simply collapse. Duncan had no idea where else to search
for him. How had he lived?

He tried cruising the neighborhood, slowly, but the hour was late, the
streets were very quiet. There was no sign of Rufus, or his car. No
likely neighborhood hangouts that Duncan could spot. So he drove to his
own house.

He put up the lights and felt the difference hit him in the face. All
over this place lay the evidences of the living inhabitants and what
interested them. Or did Duncan just imagine so because he knew, so well,
what interested these people?

Does Rufus know how _I_ live? Or care? What lets _him_ off caring, or
trying to understand?

Duncan dismissed any more angry and unprofitable brooding, sat down and
called the Judge, who had heard nothing yet. It was nearly two o’clock
in the morning. Duncan said he would go to the hospital. Rufus might
have returned there.

He went into the bedroom and found the things for Tamsen; he put them
into a suitcase. He changed into slacks and sport coat. He picked up the
case and put his father’s raincoat over his arm. He went into the
kitchen and drank a glass of water from the tap.

He was a mile away before he remembered the hairpins. He did not go
back.

The hospital, at 2:45 in the morning, was hushed. No Rufus had come
there a second time. Duncan gave the suitcase to an orderly and reminded
him that the guards must inspect it before it went to Mrs. Tyler. After
asking here and there, he finally found his brother Mitchel, sound
asleep on a couch in the Doctors’ Lounge.

Mitch woke to full intelligence with the ease of much practice. He
listened and pursed his lips to whistle but did not. He told Duncan that
tests had, indeed, been made, because the exertion of that knife-throw
was not exactly what he would have ordered, for this patient. Although
lucky for Tamsen that it had not had the force it might have had. But no
harm had been done. The boy was all right. Tamsen was all right. If her
scar was too bad, there was always skin-grafting. Everything was all
right, if only . . .

“As a matter of fact,” the Doctor said in hard appraisal, “if Rufus
hasn’t spilled the beans by this time, where it counts, our chances are
getting better that he won’t.” Mitch advised Duncan to sleep for a few
hours instead of running futilely around town. He offered him a couch.

So Duncan called his father once again. The Judge had heard nothing yet.
He sounded tired but hopeful.

Then Duncan called that cop.

Lieutenant Dennison was grateful for the call. He had no news. He said
that there had been no accident report. That, in all probability, Rufus
had not crashed anywhere, and was not lying, injured and undiscovered,
beside the wreck.

Duncan said, “Well, all I can figure is, he must have realized he wasn’t
too steady and gone to some friend. He’s probably sleeping it off in a
borrowed bed. Where, I don’t know. That’s all I can _think_ of.”

“You may be right, Mr. Tyler,” the cop said smoothly. “But we’ll keep
checking.”

Duncan reminded him to call the Judge if anything turned up. He then put
himself down on the scratchy couch. He thought he could not possibly
sleep. He considered the advantages of being here in the hospital. In
the morning he could, for one thing, borrow a razor. For another, he and
Tamsen could go together to the airport. This would be in many ways an
excellent thing. It would “look good.” It would also be good. So Duncan
slept.

                 *        *        *        *        *

To the many parking lots at the airport, there was not much difference
between day and night. The many cars stood in their ranks. Nobody
bothered them. Sometimes one left. Sometimes one came.


                                   26

When light was just evident over the mountains, a gray sedan slid to the
entrance of the building and a man got out of the back. Colonel Gorob
had come to the moment of truth. He was wearing his usual uniform to
assume his authority. It made him somewhat conspicuous, but that could
not be helped. The gray car slid away. It would hesitate somewhere,
ready to pounce back for him. But it would not hesitate forever. He knew
that.

The Colonel was carrying a fat briefcase. He stepped briskly into the
building and went to inquire about the procedure. How was he to go, in
order to approach the royal plane belonging to the King of Alalaf, the
Colonel being who he was?

The young man who told him how and where to proceed did so without any
visible qualms. So the Colonel approached the door to the outside spaces
of the field itself and addressed the man stationed there with some
confidence.

Then he was through and walking rapidly in the chill of the dawn toward
the familiar plane, which had already been wheeled into position. The
crew knew him, of course. They were full of good cheer, doing their
duty, delighted to know that the Prince was flying with them. Nobody had
warned them.

So the Colonel went up the portable flight of steps and entered the
plane. The steward knew him, of course. He had been cleaning and
polishing, as was his duty. He was now cheerfully obsequious. The
Colonel began to make suggestions for the comfort of Al Saiph. He took
care to make a great many. He then swung the length of the huge bird,
through all its various compartments.

When he returned, the steward awaited judgment. Gorob said that
everything seemed in excellent order but the man must be sure of so and
so. And so.

Gorob swung down and away. He had left the object in a good place. And
left the steward busy. He walked briskly back, in the growing light,
toward that door where the guard let him through with another “Good
morning, sir.”

The Colonel walked through the building and out at the street side. He
stood at the curb no more than a minute before the gray car came sliding
toward him. Gorob got in, pulled a topcoat over his shoulders to hide
the uniform. The car went saucily around the designated ways for getting
out of the airport complex. Inside the car, no word was spoken. Gorob
felt that he had been worthy of their trust. This was gratifying.

The thing was set to go off in two hours.

                 *        *        *        *        *

In a little while, television men with cameras, and one remote-truck,
came to the automobile gate to demand entrance to the field itself and a
spot from which they could photograph the departure of the Little
Prince, which the whole country would want to see.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Up in the coffee shop, a man seemed to be watching the time, in a stupid
sort of way. He was clad in a mussy dinner jacket, and he had not shaved
this morning. The waitress raised her brows to her fellow workers. This
guy was either hung over, now, or heading for a beauty. He looked pretty
owly and kept rubbing his nose and snuffling. But he was no trouble,
just some harmless slob. At the airport, they had already “seen
everything.”

By a quarter after eight, the TV cameras were ready; a crowd of still
photographers had gathered with an equal number of reporters. The
broadcaster from the local channel, which alone was going to do this
“live,” was there, with a scarf wrapped around his precious throat. The
field swarmed with guards and policemen who kept all others some
distance away from the royal plane.

The first private car to come through the gate was driven by Duncan
Tyler. With him was his wife, Tamsen, looking like a little pink-nosed
rabbit, huddled in her white coat. Once past the guarded gate, the car
was first impeded, and then actually stopped, by the swarming newsmen,
who were glad to see things looking up. The local TV camera even turned
its hungry eye in their direction.

The young Tylers chose, they said, to wait in their car. So the guards
brushed everybody aside and directed Duncan to where the car might
safely stand.

“So far, so good,” breathed Duncan, “O.K., honey?”

“I’m fine,” said Tamsen, trying to make herself believe this. She knew
about Rufus now, and she was doing a night’s worth of worrying, all at
once.

“_They’ll_ be O.K. No matter what he does, they’ll make it now. Watch
it! Fix your face,” said Duncan. “Here comes the interview.”

But before the newsmen could pounce on them again, the second car came
through. It was chauffeur-driven; a Secret Service man sat with the
driver. In the back, sat the Princess, her maid, and Mrs. Mitchel Tyler.
This car was permitted to draw closer to the plane and the swarm was
drawn to it. The three women got out; the car turned and, in a stately
manner, departed.

In a moment Zora, carrying last-minute small bags, went meekly toward
the steps and up into the plane itself, and vanished. The newsmen were
after the Princess, who was beautifully enveloped in a traveling costume
of soft beige. The Doctor’s wife was smilingly there, but only (as was
Phillida’s way) decoratively standing by.

“No,” she said to the only newsman who addressed her directly, “Judge
Tyler and Mrs. Tyler are not coming. They think the family is well
enough represented.”

“Say, what’s it like to be married to a Tyler?” he said inanely (being
very young and unable to get anywhere near the Princess because everyone
else had seniority).

Phillida just kept smiling faintly until he flushed and turned away.

Jaylia was already on camera when the Doctor’s car came through. Mitch
was alone in it. He drew it over to where Duncan and Tamsen were
waiting. He got out, but could do no more than salute them with his hand
before he was engulfed by eager stragglers.

Duncan said, “I guess it’s time. Now, I’m going to be right behind you.”

“All right,” said Tamsen gratefully. She was feeling very nervous. As
they got out of the car and walked toward the Princess, she eyed the big
insect, so lumpish on the ground, that would so gracefully use the sky.
The crowd opened to let them in. They greeted the Princess and she
greeted them. Duncan stood at Tamsen’s back, guarding it from any touch
whatsoever.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The “live” broadcaster was happily identifying everyone for his viewers.
By this time, a crowd of ordinary people had gathered just outside the
automobile gate. They were not let in. They would, of course, have seen
more at home, and _would_ see more, when the millions watched the news
tapes run this evening. But to be, for instance, a couple of yards from
the Little Prince when he came by—Well, that was distinction.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Maggie and the Judge and Lurlene were in the Judge’s study with the TV
set tuned to the local station, getting this “live.” The Judge was
holding his thumbs. Not much more time to be endured in this much
tension. Once the royal party took off from American soil, the situation
would improve a good deal.

Maggie was watching intently and analyzing everyone’s performance.
“Tamsen is too timid to take her own stature,” she declared. “Phillida
doesn’t want to be there. That is, sometimes, effective. Mitch looks
dour, doesn’t he? Duncan comes off best, don’t you think? Jaylia is the
most professional, of course, but she certainly overdoes _some_ things.”
Maggie clicked her tongue.

Lurlene sat there, in the couch corner, keeping quiet and looking
sullen. _She_ was a prisoner. Phillida had watched her practically all
night, for heaven’s sakes! Then, before first light, when Phillida had
taken off home (to change her precious clothes, and what a clothes-horse
_she_ was!) then Maggie had taken up the vigil. Maggie might be a little
less nasty about it, but she watched, just the same, and don’t try to
fool Lurlene. What am _I_ supposed to do? she was thinking.

What she had done this morning, under Maggie’s bright suggestion that
amounted to an order, was to cut off her new long dress and hem it to be
a short dress. So now, here she was, wearing it, and watching TV. And
look who was _on_ TV, this morning.

Yah, look! “Dr. Mitchel Tyler who . . .” and so on.

“Duncan Tyler, the Doctor’s brother, who . . .” and so on.

Not one word about any other brother. _They_ wouldn’t say there even
_was_ a Rufus. No, they wouldn’t do _that_, in this world!

“The Doctor’s wife, Phillida Tyler, who . . .” Blah-blah-blah—

“Tamsen Tyler, who is becoming one of our . . .” Blah and blah.

And was there any Lurlene Tyler mentioned? Naw, _she_ wasn’t there. She
had to sit home with the old folks and watch the whole thing on TV. And
the whole thing was phony, if you asked _her_!

                 *        *        *        *        *

The picture jumped to a long shot. Almost together, there were now
arriving the King’s car and the ambulance in which the Little Prince was
riding. Motorcycles could be heard, roaring distantly, but that noise
stopped short of the gate, where the King’s car deferred to the
ambulance. But when both vehicles had entered, the car came to a stop
first. Three men got out of the King’s car, walked to the plane, and
boarded. They were only servants. The King, and two cohorts, waited in
the vehicle, deferring to the Little Prince. The camera soon understood
this and looked to where the swarm was buzzing around the back of the
ambulance.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan said quietly to the Princess, “While we have the chance,
good-bye, Jaylia. And happy landing. You’ll make it.”

Jaylia said, with no coquetry at all, “Thank you all, for everything.
Good luck.”

Tamsen said, “Good-bye. Good luck.” It was Tamsen who kissed the
Princess. Duncan was already intent upon what was happening over there.

Hayyan and Kasim climbed out of the ambulance and turned to help Inga
down. Inga turned, at once, to help the boy.

Saiph appeared on his feet and in full regalia. He looked lively and
well. At some screaming suggestions, he remained poised, his hands
clasped together in a very appealing way, standing higher than the
crowd, while the camera turned.

The Little Prince was pleased to answer a few bland questions with bland
answers. Yes, he was very happy to be going home. Yes, he had liked
America very much. Yes, he hoped, one day, to return. The camera held on
his handsome face, his charming smile.

(“He’s just adorable!” “Isn’t he cute!” “Bless his heart!”)

Meanwhile, the ambulance driver had taken out a wheelchair. Inga folded
herself around the Prince like a mother hen with protective wingspread,
and then he was seated in the wheelchair where the camera couldn’t get
much of him, through the surrounding throng, thick with guards and
uniformed police. The newsmen trotted at the edges as a path was swept
before the Prince, and he was moved within the throng, and pushed to
where his mother was waiting.

“We must get you aboard,” his mother said, smiling at him.

“I do not wish to be carried.”

“Of course not. Inga, you go beside him, I’ll come just after.”

Saiph said to Tamsen a gay, “So long. See you later,” which was only in
fun. Their real farewells, equally gay, had been said in the hospital
suite. They were very fond of each other; they would never meet again.
No use to fuss about it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

On television, it was the King’s turn.

Al Asad was looking stern in the morning light, tall, presumably lean,
and all business, whatever a king’s business may be. A man in white
stood at either side of his striking figure.

“The King of Alalaf—who speaks no English, by the way—”


                                   27

Some distance away, at the automobile gate, there was a man in a rumpled
dinner jacket, begging to enter.

“You can’t go through here, sir.”

“You don’t understand. I am Rufus Tyler. Tyler.” The man’s voice was
shrill with strain.

“I can’t help—”

“Beg pardon,” said the other guard. “Tyler?”

“Yes, Tyler. I am Rufus Tyler. Look,” Rufus held out his identification.
“I have to speak to the King. There’s something I have to tell. It has
to be told. Don’t you hear me? It has to be told. It will have to . . .”
He looked exhausted and he sagged.

“Are you related to Dr. Tyler, sir?”

“Yes. Yes. I am the Doctor’s brother.” Rufus braced up. “Both of my
brothers are out there. Let me through, before it’s too late. This is
important. It has to be told. I tried. Please. Call somebody, then. My
father is Judge Tyler. My mother is Maggie Mitchel. Tell somebody, will
you please?”

The guards were wavering. Then, Rufus was through. He began to run. The
guards at the gate gazed after him dubiously. Then they had to jump to
let the ambulance out. Now that its passenger was delivered, it had
business elsewhere.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Tamsen and Duncan, Mitch and Phillida, were drifting slowly behind the
progress of the Prince and his entourage toward the plane. Duncan was
the first to stiffen. “No,” he said sharply, and pushed through the
people and away.

Then Tamsen saw the running figure. She bit her own finger violently,
not to scream. (Oh, no, not now!)

Mitch turned and saw it. All heads began to turn. But Mitch pushed,
decisively, the other way. “Get him up there, quickly,” he said. “Saiph,
walk. Quickly.”

Inga turned her head. She whirled her body around and took something
from her pocket.

Mitch said quietly, “None of that.” He grabbed her hand, and wrenched
the gun out of it in so swift and brutal a movement that he was scarcely
seen to have made it. Everyone else was now looking back toward the gate
and the lone man, running in that exhausted stagger. Several guards were
now running and converging on him.

Mitch said, “Wait. Better _not_ go up those steps. Some idiot might
shoot. Stand tight around Saiph. You two, and you and you.” The
bodyguards, the nurse, and the mother closed to a human square around
the boy. Inga held her right hand in her left; her eyes blazed but she
said nothing.

Mitch took three strides to Phillida. “Open your purse.” She did so at
once, and he dropped the gun therein. He pressed his car keys into her
hand.

Phillida said, “What must I do?”

“Go to the car. Take Tamsen. _Now._ We’ll see.”

Then Mitch began to run in an easy lope.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan was running hard. He saw that one of the guards was getting there
first. He saw Rufus dodge and duck. But Rufus was inept. He was clumsy.
He didn’t make it. The guard hit him a hard blow to his middle and Rufus
doubled over, toppled, and went down.

“Just a minute,” Duncan bellowed. Rufus was on the ground and the guard
was pulling his arm to a lock. Others were swarming. But Duncan could
now be fairly sure that Rufus was unconscious. So he shouted, “Hold it.
That’s my brother.”

Unconscious. (Silent!) Thank God, thought Duncan. Yet he couldn’t help
noting that Rufus had failed again. Whatever he had intended to do, he
had muffed it, as usual.

“Let him go,” said Duncan, with moderate indignation. “That’s my
brother.”

Mitch now came trotting to enter the circle. “Yes, that’s my brother.”
He crouched to examine Rufus once again. (Once again.) All three
brothers were now locked within a circle of legs, uniformed and
otherwise, and over their heads hung a cloud of babble. The camera
couldn’t see in.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“What happened?” Maggie was saying. “William, what happened?”

“I don’t know, Maggie darling. Trust the boys. Trust the girls.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan was saying into the Doctor’s ear, “Get him out of here. Get him
_away_.”

“I’m working on it,” Mitch said.

“Throw your weight around,” Duncan said fiercely. “I’ll be the decoy.”

When the Doctor rose to his feet, everybody became quiet to listen.
“Wind’s out of him. Bumped his head, maybe. He’s not hurt,” the Doctor
said, dourly.

One of the guards from the gate was there. “He told us he had something
to tell the King. He had his I.D. So we let him . . . He was in a rush
. . .”

“I’m sorry as hell, Doctor,” said the man who had hit Rufus. “But how
could I know?”

“Too bad the ambulance went,” said a man. “Look, we’ll call the Airport
Hospital.”

“Don’t do that,” said Mitch.

“Listen, Doctor, that’s what it’s there for.”

“He’s my brother,” said Mitch, “and my patient. I want him where _I_
want him. Do you mind?”

The men fell back from his anger. “Honest to John, Doctor,” said the
one, “I sure hope he’s not bad. I didn’t know.”

It was Duncan who said, “All right. You made a mistake. But that happens
to be our brother.” He turned to the gate guard. “He told you he had
something to say to the King?”

“Yes, Mr. Tyler, that’s what he said. He said ‘before it’s too late.’ He
said it was important.”

“Well, he may not be hurt, but he’s not talking, is he?” said Duncan
ferociously. “Let me through, please. I’m going to find out what this is
about.”

He walked rapidly away with the air of purpose that goes with decisive
motion. It was attractive. He could tell that a large part of the pack,
the news people (who also wanted to find out what this was about) were
being drawn after him. Duncan did not know what he was going to do or
say. But he appeared to know.

There was still a tight knot around the Prince. But the old King stood
apart, his robes fluttering in the breeze. On either side of him, his
cohorts were fluttering like twin white hawks. All three faces were
hot-and-cold with outrage and suspicion. They looked as if they each had
only a toe on the ground. Duncan strode toward them, wishing he could
say “Shoo! Fly away! Fly away!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Phillida was in the driver’s seat of Mitch’s car and Tamsen was beside
her. “What are we going to do?” Tamsen’s eyes were bright with
excitement.

“We don’t know. We’re ready, that’s all.”

“It’s another ballet? An improvisation?”

“It’s a mess,” said Phillida. “How _can_ he be gotten away from here?”

Tamsen seemed to know how. “I suppose we are going to take him,” she
said, gazing back toward the excitement. Phillida chewed her lip.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The television men were having a fit. “Close up, can’t you?” “Damn white
thing, on his head.” “Get Tyler, then.” “Guy’s in the way.” “Come on,
buddy.” “I’m trying. I’m trying.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan said to Al Asad, “Your Majesty, the man on the gate says that my
brother wanted to tell you something.”

The King said “Ah” in a condescending manner, as if he didn’t believe a
word of it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Damn,” said a television man. “Go, tell some of those birds to move,
will ya?”

But new guards were circling with locked arms, and against them the
swarm pressed, making a wall.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan Tyler, for a man speaking to a monarch, was not being very
humble. “The guard who hit him had no way of knowing who he was, or what
he wanted. But the point is, what important message did my brother have
for you? He has been knocked out. He is unconscious. He can’t tell you,
now.”

Al Asad’s eye was piercing, yet opaque.

“Boy, is he ever out,” muttered a newsman helpfully.

Duncan looked around him and said imperiously, “If you people can’t keep
quiet, you will have to move away. This is important.”

So they became quiet, but naturally, they pressed in ever closer.

                 *        *        *        *        *

On camera, it looked not unlike a football huddle, in plain clothes.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Off camera, two policemen, under the Doctor’s direction, were lifting a
limp Rufus as gently as they could. They then began to carry him across
the field. A half dozen men tagged along.

“_We_ get him,” said Phillida.

“So I thought,” said Tamsen. She was smiling.

Mitch had the men place Rufus tenderly on the back seat of the car.
Rufus seemed to know nothing of what was happening. The Doctor squeezed
in to bend over him, while the other men pressed to stare through the
glass.

“Can you drive, Phillida?” Mitch wasn’t looking at her nor she at him.
“Of course,” she said.

“Maggie’s. If there’s a chance. Just cool it. But take the first
chance.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Mitch backed out of the narrowness. An argument began at once. “Doctor,
you’ve got to understand that we may be held responsible.” “We have our
own facilities . . .” “If he’s not hurt, why not take him into the
Lounge?” “After all, he is a witness.” “Insurance . . .” “No negligence,
on our part . . .” “Must insist . . .”

Mitch contrived to draw the arguing group slowly away.

Three newsmen, including the very young one, had stuck to Rufus. They
were not attending to the argument, but peering into the car with noses
flat.

Phillida said, “Will you gentlemen move, please? I must turn the car.”
She had the motor on, the car was powerful. The men backed a wary few
feet away. Tamsen was trying to think of something she could do to help.

                 *        *        *        *        *

One of the King’s cohorts, the one named Colonel Hafsah (or something
like that) was translating what Duncan had said. The King replied to it,
then, coldly. The interpreter said, “His Majesty asks if you know what
the message was?”

“No, I do not,” said Duncan. He knew, by the tail of his eye, where
Rufus was. He knew he _had_ made a diversion, temporarily, but where did
he go from here? He said, “I would like to ask if there wasn’t another
member of your party? I don’t see Colonel Gorob. Where is he?”

“Who he?” mumbled a newsman.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” said another. “They’re loading the Little Prince!”

So the swarm trembled, being drawn two ways. The Doctor had shaken off
his group and was standing at the bottom of the steps, superintending
the embarkation of the Prince. Beside him stood the steward, all smiles.

Duncan decided to surrender to the rival attraction. He said, “Excuse
me,” not very humbly, and walked rapidly toward his brother Mitchel.

The King said a sharp word. He and his cohorts began to move in a
stately pace toward the plane. The guards kept guarding; the swarm was
strung out, on both sides of the procession.

On camera, the Little Prince was halfway up the steps.

Duncan Tyler, remaining in his part, that of the puzzled, the indignant,
the probing, said to the steward, “Is Colonel Gorob aboard?”

“No, sir,” said the steward. He was going to swing up the steps himself,
soon. The Prince was aboard. So was the Princess. The King was
approaching.

Duncan could now feel the white hawks at his back.

“Where is this man?” said Duncan loudly.

The steward said, “Colonel Gorob came aboard early to inspect, sir. I
have not seen him since.”

Duncan swung around and looked at Al Asad. The King’s eyes flickered. Al
Asad said (In English! Sensation!), “Let the airplane be searched.”

The camera had zoomed in and it was getting that face. “Wow!” The TV
people were exultant. “Have we got a picture!”

The guards began to surge and heave. The crowd was pushed and it milled;
it divided. The guards were ruthlessly in control, now. Almost
immediately the Little Prince reappeared and began to come down the
steps. Behind him, people began to pour out of the plane.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Tamsen cried, “Oh! Oh, _look_! Something is happening! Oh, what is
_happening_?”

Their contingent of newsmen began to run toward whatever was happening,
this being their duty.

So Phillida caused the car to move softly, softly, toward the gate.

The guard there said, “Mrs. Tyler?” respectfully.

“Doctor’s orders,” she said, in her bright casual way.

“Not hurt too bad, is he?” The guard was looking in. “I probably should
have got hold of your husband, Mrs. Tyler, before we let him through.”

“But the Doctor was so busy with the Little Prince,” said Tamsen, with
an air of warm understanding. “How _could_ you have?”

“I guess that’s right, too,” the guard said, not without gratitude.
“Taking him over to the hospital? Want an escort?”

The guard looked around. But all the motorcycles had long ago departed.

“We’ll be fine,” said Phillida. “I’ve been told exactly what to do.”

“O.K., then. Good luck, Mrs. Tyler.” He let them through. The ordinary
people, just outside the gate, stood aside to let the car pass. They
didn’t seem to realize that the two women (“Hey, that’s Phillida.” “The
other one is Tamsen.” “Tyler.” “Tyler.”) had an unconscious man lying
helplessly low, behind them.

Then they were free and rolling. Phillida drove with grim care. Nobody
seemed to be following them.

“What if he comes to?” Tamsen whispered.

“You may have to shoot him,” Phillida said. “Mitch put a gun in my
purse. See if it’s loaded.”

“I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t do that.” It was as if they were
discussing some new and scandalous style.

“Then hope for the best because if he comes to, we’ll have to handle it
ourselves.”

Tamsen was turned to look over at the limp man, lying on his back with
long legs trailing to the floor at an uncomfortable-seeming angle. His
face was flaccid. He looked as if he had been so tired that he had
fallen asleep in his tracks and cared for nothing anymore.

“It’s a whole damn hour to Maggie’s,” Phillida said. “Not much less.”

“Never mind,” said Tamsen. “And don’t worry. He isn’t going to rise up
and clobber you. Just drive. I’ll watch him.”

What will I do, though? she wondered. She had not hunted Phillida’s
purse for a gun. That was ridiculous! Impossible! You did not, you could
not shoot a bullet at a living person for just being confused, for being
not really responsible, even for being (in so mad and helpless a way)
such a dangerous nuisance. No. Anyway, _she_ couldn’t.

Tamsen reflected that she had never even seen a gun except in some movie
or play. She didn’t believe in guns. But what must she do, if Rufus
became mobile? Understand him? The fact was, Tamsen did _not_ understand
him. That was impossible, too.

She kept a sharp watch on his face, feeling her wound crack and sting
with the pull of her shoulders, as Phillida swooped up to the Freeway
and began to drive as fast as Mitch drove a car.

It occurred to Tamsen that Rufus might be shamming again, as Mitch had
once suspected. If so, that was pitiful. But had she the time to pity
him, now? She must watch, and if his eyelids so much as fluttered . . .

We could be killed, thought Tamsen. Very easily, all three of us, if
Rufus rises up and does something violent in this speeding car. What
must I _do_? Well, I’d better search my soul another time, she thought
grimly. I know what I’m _not_ going to do. I am not going to _allow_ him
to kill us by some blundering, mindless lurching. He must not, in
whatever misery or distress, kill us all. And I won’t let him. She began
to grope for Phillida’s purse.

Neither she nor Phillida spoke another word. They seemed to know that
they had better not chatter. It was as if time might go by unmeasured as
in a dream, providing that no word, no exchange of idea, nothing broke
into its passage and betrayed that it was passing.


                                   28

Maggie was totally concentrating on the television show, where the crowd
milled and the broadcaster recapitulated. The Judge kept patting her.
“Trust the boys,” he kept muttering. “Trust the girls.” Rufus was in
hand. He knew that. So they would pull it off, or else they wouldn’t. He
had braced for the camera to show them Rufus, blinking and mumbling (or
perhaps not quite mumbling) but it had not. It kept hunting for glimpses
of the King, or the Princess, but especially for any view of the Little
Prince, everybody’s darling.

Suddenly the broadcaster said, in a perfectly human and personal
surprise, “What?”

The camera began to steady on the door of the plane where a policeman
had appeared.

The broadcaster said, with caution, “There seems to have been a device
of some kind. . . .” His voice gained confidence. “Ladies and gentlemen,
there seems to have been an explosive device on the King’s jet. A bomb
has been found!” Now he could not help an exultant excitement, “Ladies
and gentlemen, you are getting this _live_!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

But the Judge was already up, and at his desk, reaching for his
telephone.

Maggie rose and walked toward him. “William, who?”

“It was never Rufus,” the Judge said, loudly enough to seem joyous, “who
planted any bomb on the King’s plane. He couldn’t have managed that,
Maggie darling. He simply isn’t, and never was, clever enough.”

Lurlene just sat there, watching the confusing swirl of the crowd on the
screen while the voice said, over and over again that, in a “most
dramatic incident,” a bomb had just been found on the private plane of
the King of Alalaf, “on which the Little Prince” . . . and so on, and so
on. It seemed, now, that the plane would be searched, inch by inch. The
Little Prince would not depart . . . no, no . . . until this had been
thoroughly done. The royal party was being taken to the V.I.P. Lounge,
in the building. “Ladies and gentlemen—” The camera showed a phalanx of
people moving away from it. But it didn’t show Rufus.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Judge was saying into the phone, “Is there a good guess where he
might be? Very fine thing if he could be picked up, quickly. No, this
Colonel Gorob could pass for almost any Westerner. Reddish hair. Very
freckled-faced. Medium tall. . . . No, I don’t think he can get at them
now. But we had better be concerned that the blame for this is put where
it belongs. And fast. . . . There are some people, including Colonel
Gorob, who would like nothing better than the news going out of an
American attack on the Prince. Oh, it would spread in ten minutes. The
world’s too small. Even a rumor . . . Yes, of course, it is a big city.
Well . . .”

The Judge had no sooner hung up than his phone rang again.

Duncan said, “Dad? The girls have got Rufus. They’ll bring him there.”

“Good. What about Gorob?” Maggie was hanging over the Judge’s shoulder.

“It was Gorob, all right,” said Duncan. “He showed up early this
morning, the only one except the crew to enter that plane. That’s pretty
clear.”

“Good,” said the Judge. “But it had better be very clear, and clear
right away. It had better get on the air and into the papers. The
foreign press, for instance. Authoritatively.”

“Yes, sir,” said Duncan cheerfully. “So all I have to do is go tell the
King of Alalaf exactly what _he_ must do and say in the next five
minutes.”

“That’s all,” said the Judge fondly.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Maggie said, “_We_ had better brace ourselves, William, for the press.”

“Oh, yes, they’ll be on us.”

“We have no guards anymore.”

“I may be able to rustle up one or two. I have other calls to make,
quickly.”

“I must warn Sam, at least.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Lurlene thought, Yah, look at them! Here they saw their own son knocked
down and out, and lying on the ground. And all they got to say is ‘he
wasn’t clever?’ Um boy! And the TV, it don’t show one sign of him and he
could be dead and who gives a damn? Who cares? Lurlene put her
handkerchief to her eyes. “Excuse me,” she sobbed. “Excuse me.”

She ran out of the study and sobbed her way upstairs.

But once there, she stopped sobbing abruptly. She went into the east
guest room and picked up her evening purse. Then she went along the
passage to Maggie’s room. Maggie’s purse was lying on her dressing
table. Lurlene opened it and took the money. She then walked downstairs.

The Judge was on the phone again. His study door was open. He could see
her perfectly well, so she walked back toward the garden side. Maggie
was not in the lanai. If she was in the kitchen, the angles of the house
were a protection. Lurlene kept on going. She went out through the glass
doors and turned to her left, and began to walk along the west terrace,
past where the musicians had been last night, and the nook where she and
that Mrs-Somebody had sat and frittered time away while all kinds of
stuff was going on. All kinds of secret things. But they hadn’t told
Lurlene. Not _they_!

She crept around the west wing of the house. The Judge could see the
driveway from his windows but he probably wasn’t looking out his
windows. Lurlene tripped along close to the shrubbery. She made it to
the end of the drive and put thick shrubs between her and the house. She
was scurrying along the street, a hundred feet away, when a fast car
swooped into the driveway. Mitch’s car. Hah, and Phillida driving, and a
woman next to her. Tamsen, yah!

Well, Lurlene certainly didn’t want to be around when _they_ got there.

She had _had_ it. She had absolutely _had_ it from those Tylers. She
didn’t know where to go, or what to do, or even whether her own husband
was alive or dead. The truth was she had to have a drink. And if Lurlene
needed a drink, she was going to get a drink. _She_ was alive, wasn’t
she? Not in San Marino, a drink. Not in this stupid town. Culture, yah!
O.K., she’d call a taxi and she’d go where there was a bar. She had
sixty bucks. She’d blow it if she felt like it. Maggie would never say a
word. All in the family, Lurlene thought bitterly.

She had come to Huntington Drive and she saw a phone booth. So she’d
call a cab. Get farther away from them, go some place and think. Think
what to do. And find her husband. Listen, she had a right to find her
husband. She had a right to say what she thought, and also, tell what
she knew. Because it shouldn’t have been for nothing, she was thinking.
So what was he doing at the airport, I don’t know, but if they _killed_
him, if they just _killed_ him, and don’t even mention it on TV! It
shouldn’t have been for _nothing_ that he died!

The thought of Rufus dead was not shocking because she had known, for a
long time, that Rufus had _had_ it. He’d not been figuring to live,
exactly.

Sam was a strong man and Hilde a stout woman. Phillida had her own
physical strength. Yet Rufus, once pulled from the car, stood up and
walked into the house. He did not seem to be conscious, but he walked.

Maggie followed them up the stairs to the west guest room, where they
were going to put him down. Tamsen, who couldn’t help in this way, went
into the study. The television was still on, but the Judge wasn’t paying
it any attention. He came to her and took her hands and then he said,
“What’s this?”

There was a small gun in Tamsen’s right hand. She didn’t quite know how,
through several hands, it had come there. The Judge took it away gently.
He looked it over. It was in no state to be fired. He didn’t tell her
so. He put the gun away. He placed a cushion so that her upper back
would be held away from the back of the couch. He sat her down. He mixed
her a therapeutic drink.

He would not go upstairs, to where Maggie would be mourning. (Although
only he could know how deeply. He knew it, where he was.)

The familiar sound of Duncan’s voice made them both turn to the screen.

“His Majesty,” Duncan was saying, “may have a statement. I don’t know.
In the meantime . . .”

The background was a wall. Duncan looked (his wife thought) handsome,
young, strong, intelligent.

“Mr. Tyler?”

“Mr. Tyler?”

He was interrupted.

“What happened to your brother Rufus?”

“The doctors are probably finding that out right now,” said Duncan
evasively.

“Hey, Mr. Tyler, your brother _knew_ about this bomb, do you think?”

“Your brother knew it, did he?”

Duncan’s face filled the screen. He looked handsome (and all the rest)
but also wise, his wife thought. “Somehow, and we do not know
how—during the night he must have learned something. He came here with
what he said was an urgent message for the King. Now, this Colonel
Gorob—”

“But _will_ he talk, your brother?”

“When, Mr. Tyler?”

“Is he going to be O.K., Mr. Tyler?”

“Where is he? Is he in the hospital?”

Duncan did not answer. It seemed that the King of Alalaf was just now
coming outside to make a statement.

                 *        *        *        *        *

In the V.I.P. lounge the boy, the servants, and the women had been
sitting quietly, sipping refreshment. In that haven also, Al Asad and
his cohorts had been standing—and two Americans (quiet men who had
drifted in) and Mitch leaning watchfully nearby, besides. All of them
had been listening to Duncan Tyler.

“In the event that you may not understand the American newsmen as well
as I do,” he had said into the King’s teeth, “they jump _fast_.” The
King’s eyes had been opaque.

Duncan had turned to this Colonel Hafsah (or whatever his name was).
“Tell His Majesty that if he does not wish the first advices to confuse
your people dangerously, it must be made very clear, very quickly, that
no _American_ planted that bomb.”

Both of the King’s white hawks had fluttered a little. But no one had
replied to this impertinence. (Who was _this_ young person to advise a
king?)

“If you like,” Duncan had said, because time was wasting, “_I’ll_ go,
and do it myself.”

The King’s eye had then glittered. The one called Hafsah (or something
like that) had said, “You have no authority, Mr. Tyler.”

Duncan had said, “I have a tongue.”

Al Asad had said, in English, “My people would not believe a statement
from you.” His thin lips had curved contemptuously.

Duncan had turned and said, “Will you tell His Majesty that _mine
will_?” Then he had walked away, sensing that the two eagles (in
business suits and horn-rimmed glasses) were stirring, softly.

The King had looked murderous.

                 *        *        *        *        *

But now, here he came.

He spoke in the other language. The camera was on his very lips. His
interpreter then translated. The statement made it very clear, to the
whole world, that the bomb on the royal plane had, beyond a doubt, been
planted there by an enemy of the regime, a man formerly trusted in
Alalaf, but now turned traitor and would-be assassin. This Colonel Heinz
Gorob had gone into hiding, but American authorities (it had been
agreed) would hunt him out for quick extradition. American vigilance had
prevented a terrible tragedy. The King and Al Saiph were pleased to be
most grateful. His Majesty wished to say that he was arranging for some
twenty-eight American professors (whom he had been keeping under his
protection for some time) to be flown safely to their homes as soon as
the King himself was at his home safely. However, His Majesty hoped that
they would return to their positions when certain discordant and
dangerous elements had been eliminated from the campus.

In a very short while, the royal party would board the plane. His
Majesty wished to say, for himself and for the Prince, his grandson, a
gracious farewell to the American people, and to convey his gratitude to
Dr. Mitchel Tyler, and, indeed, to the entire Tyler family.

His Majesty was sanguine that, in the future, bonds between the two
countries would be strengthened by other such profitable friendships.
The Prince was well.

The broadcaster took over. “That, ladies and gentlemen, was the King of
Alalaf.” But he did not say the whole thing all over again. He took
another tack. “Ladies and gentlemen, it was _Rufus_ Tyler, son of Judge
William Rufus Tyler, and the incomparable Maggie Mitchel, a brother of
Dr. Tyler’s—it was _Rufus_ Tyler who . . .” and so on and so on.

Tamsen said wonderingly, “Rufus is a hero?”

Phillida was standing in the door.

“How is he?” said the Judge quickly.

“Delirious,” said Phillida, “or as good as. Sam’s there. By the way,
where is Lurlene?”


                                   29

Lurlene was in the comforting darkness of a bar, downtown. It wasn’t
quite time for the preluncheon drinkers. She was, in fact, the only
customer. She sat up on a stool, watching the TV set that hung over the
back bar.

The local channel was still doing a “live” broadcast from the airport.
They had preempted yet another half hour, and this sponsor had given
them the go-ahead. So would the next, they hoped. Or, even if not, they
weren’t going to surrender their luck, to be exclusively on-the-spot and
“live.” They would stay to see the royal plane off.

But meanwhile, there was nothing much to show on camera. The plane stood
there lumpishly, and what feverish activities might be within were not
visible. All the interesting V.I.P.’s were now hidden away within the
lounge.

So the truck had wheeled around and a newscaster had become the M.C.,
doing a man-in-the-street kind of interview with the crowd of ordinary
people. It was only to mark time, and as uninspired as such things
normally were.

There was the wiggly girl who thought everything was real thrilling. But
_she_ didn’t want to be a princess. She was going to be a dental
assistant. “Good for you,” the M.C. said.

There was the middle-aged housewife who knew exactly how world peace
could be achieved. Let everybody, at all times, behave exactly as _she_
behaved. This would solve most earthly problems.

There was the humanitarian, infuriated by man’s inhumanity. This Colonel
Gorob ought to be lynched; the speaker would be glad to tie the
hangman’s knot himself, in person.

Lurlene sipped up these ideas with her liquor, on the whole,
approvingly. But they weren’t saying one word about Lurlene’s husband.
(The people who were being interviewed, not being at home, had not heard
the King’s statement nor the present legend of Rufus. Neither had
Lurlene, who had been in the taxicab.) She was beginning to think that
probably he wasn’t dead, but probably the family had him, and probably
they had tied him up again. A fine thing. . . .

On the screen appeared a man, an ordinary citizen in jeans and plaid
shirt, with dark-rimmed eyeglasses, and a gleaming bald head. He said,
“I know where this Colonel Gorob is.”

“Is that so, sir?” said the man with the mike, politely.

“I sure do. I happened to see him go in there last night.”

“I see. You know this Colonel Gorob by sight, do you, sir?”

“Yah,” said the interviewee, with a sudden furious snarl, “_I_ know him
by sight. You don’t want to believe that, do you? So I know him by sight
because I seen him on TV. How do you like that?”

“I see.” The M.C. moved the mike toward somebody else.

But the bald-headed man pushed himself, and his mouth close, again. “You
don’t want to believe that, right? O.K. But I’m telling you, I see this
Gorob go into this old Spanish house—”

“Oh, you did?” smirked the M.C. The crowd was giggling.

“On Mynard Street. Listen, I live down that way. It was kinda late—”

“You saw him in the dark, did you?”

“_Naw_, I didn’t see him in the dark. It so happens, he’s right under
the streetlight, which is right where this house happens—”

“I see. If you know the address—”

“_I_ don’t know the address.”

“I see.”

“Whole street is only two blocks long.”

“Excuse me. Miss? How do _you_ feel . . .”

“You don’t want to believe me?” Baldy pushed in again. “When I’m only
trying to tell the Goddest truth. But _you’re_ not going to believe me,
are you?”

“I think, sir, that if you have any important information, you ought to
take it to the police,” the M.C. said, against the warning noises in his
earphone.

“Hah! _They’re_ going to believe me?”

“I’m sorry. Madame? Or is it Miss? How do _you_ feel about . . .”

“Listen,” howled the bald-headed man. “Look at this fellow Rufus Tyler.
_He_ was only trying to tell the Goddest truth, and look what they done
to _him_. The po-lice!” He spat on the ground.

The M.C. turned all the way around as the picture went back to the
studio. Troublemakers in sidewalk interviews had to be handled.

“Hey, that’s _right_!” Lurlene burst aloud. “Look at that! _They’re_ not
going to believe him. _They_ don’t want to listen to somebody trying to
tell them the truth. That’s _right_.”

“Yeah, maybe he don’t know what he’s talking,” said the bartender. “This
Colonel what’s-his-name is from this foreign country. How come this
character knows what he looks like?”

Lurlene held her forehead in her hand. “Um, boy,” she said. “How dumb
can you get? He just _said_ he saw him on TV. You don’t believe him
either, do you? Who listens to the truth? Who?”

“You want to believe him, go ahead, be my guest.” The bartender smiled
placatingly and polished glass.

“I happen to know what this colonel looks like myself,” she said. “You
believe that? Naw.”

“If you say so, I certainly do, ma’am.”

“Yah! What do I owe?”

So he told her. He was just as glad she was leaving. Never did like
seeing a lone dame up at his bar. Couldn’t get used to it; that was a
fact.

Lurlene went out and found another taxi. “Listen, you know Mynard
Street? Only about two blocks long, right?”

“That’s right, lady.”

“So take me down them two blocks,” Lurlene said, “and maybe I’ll tell
you where I get off. And maybe I won’t.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

She was fuming. It shouldn’t be for nothing, she was thinking. No, it
shouldn’t. They never let him have one chance. They keep him down, all
the time. Well, Rufus isn’t any liar; that I know. Oh, _they_ can lie.
But here’s this thing and he done it for me. (Lurlene was swimming in
her dream.) Here’s Rufus, he actually tries to shoot the kid. Well, it’s
the truth, and they got no right to cover it up and Rufus don’t want
them to cover it up, but they think they can do anything, they think
they’re so smart. And I don’t care what you say, it’s not right to tell
lies and this colonel, he ought to be glad to know that _he_ was right.
Sure he was right. He had a hunch, you bet, last night. He was the one
said about a woman and a knife. And he was right, because that was
Tamsen-baby. But, oh no . . . Well, that’s what _they_ think. Somebody’s
got to listen. This colonel should be glad. And spread it around, in ten
minutes! (Lurlene remembered.)

                 *        *        *        *        *

On Mynard Street, the old Spanish house was easy to find. There was only
one old Spanish house. Its number was painted on a stone. The stone was
under the streetlight. Everything seemed to fit.

Lurlene was feeling frightened as she went up the leaf-arched path. But
she summoned up enough righteous indignation to be able to ring. After a
few exchanges at the door, somebody spoke from deep inside. Then they
let her in.

                 *        *        *        *        *

At the airport the royal party, ceremoniously and at last, boarded the
royal plane. The door was closed, the steps were drawn away, the big bug
began to crawl. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Little Prince of Alalaf has
just . . .”

Duncan said to his brother Mitchel, “Come on. I’ll drive you.”

The newsmen swarmed after them to Duncan’s car.

“You going to the hospital, Doctor?”

“He’s there, is he?”

Duncan said, “Look, friends, it’s been a rough morning. How about giving
us some breathing time?”

“Yes, but where’s Rufus?”

“We want Rufus.”

“He talking yet?”

“What?” “Why?” “Where?”

Mitch said, “Rufus is at my father’s house. We are going there now.”

Mitch said to Duncan’s eyebrow as they moved away and the pack raced for
transportation, “You dreaming they wouldn’t find out where he is?”

Duncan said, “I _hope_ he’s there.”

Rufus was there. But Lurlene was not.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Almost as soon as they had entered the house to receive this blow, the
house was besieged. The Judge finally went outside and said a few words.

His son Rufus was here, yes, but in collapse. Not physically injured,
no, but in a state of emotional collapse. He was not yet coherent. The
family did not know his story. They might not know it for some time to
come. Would the press please have the goodness to allow a very ill man
and his worried family some respite?

“Listen, Judge Tyler?”

“Judge Tyler?”

“Why did Rufus show up at this police station, sir?”

“Why was he talking to the cops around midnight?”

“Judge? What did he mean, a big important crime?”

“I am very sorry,” said the Judge. “I cannot tell you anything. I don’t
know what to tell you.”

This, at least, was the bare truth, he thought, as, amid protests, he
went back into his house having done (he feared) no particular good.

The family was gathered in the lanai. Except for Rufus, who was upstairs
with the burly male nurse Mitch had called in to attend to him. Except
for Lurlene, who was God knew where, saying God knew what to whom.

When the Judge came in, feeling futile, Maggie said at once, “Never
mind, William.”

Tamsen said, “Saiph is all right. They’ll get him home safe, won’t
they?”

Duncan said gloomily, “There _is_ that.”

The Judge had heard this said before. When he had told the right people
the right things, one of them had said, “There _is_ that.” And so there
was. The Judge sat down.

Mitchel said, “Well, the hell with them out there. I’m running the
gantlet and going back to work.”

Phillida said, “Work, for the night is coming.” Her eyes shone, as if
with tears.

But Mitch shrugged, saying you never knew. He kissed his wife, and then
his mother, and left to push ruthlessly through and escape.

The Judge said, to encourage the others, “With the King’s statement and
Saiph coming home, I suppose all is well enough in Alalaf. There _is_
that.”

“It’s just us Tylers, then?” said Tamsen.

“That’s who it is, honey,” Duncan said. “If we try to say that Lurlene
is _also_ off her nut, that won’t wash, I’m afraid.”

“What could she do?”

“She can tell the truth,” the Judge said.

“She can tell it,” said Maggie dreamily.

The Judge gave her a very suspicious look. Maggie, who had come
downstairs as from a bier, had sat among them, the most detached and
calm. Maggie, who mourned Rufus as if he had died (and properly so, the
Judge agreed), had seemed held in the peace of that finality. But now
she had a sphinx-look on.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Colonel Gorob was in conference with two of his new masters. They had
all listened to what this Mrs. Lurlene Tyler had to say. They had all
thanked her courteously. Now she was being given refreshment in another
room.

“Do you believe her story, Gorob?” said the thin one.

“It may very well be true,” the Colonel said stiffly, noticing the
absence of his title and rank.

“Really of no moment whether it is true,” said the fat one. “We can’t
afford to have it told.”

“No?” The Colonel was somewhat surprised. “It seems to be the very story
I had wind of last night. With an improvement. An American attempt to
assassinate the Prince. Surely, this is useful.”

“It will not be believed.”

“No?”

“Rufus Tyler is, at present, a great man in the eyes of the populace. He
is supposed to have known about the explosive and come in time to ‘save’
the ‘Little Prince.’” The fat one’s voice put in the sneering quotation
marks. “Now, how can Rufus Tyler be held up as one who tried to
assassinate the same child he so nobly saved?”

“He knew nothing,” said the Colonel irritably. “It was a freakish
misunderstanding.”

Failure, however, was failure, whether freakish or no.

“Our people would be accused of inventing a completely silly falsehood,”
said the fat one. “Not clever at all. Against a Tyler? That respected
family? No, no. It could weaken our propaganda machine. We would look
like fools. Wiser to keep her quiet.”

“I agree,” said the thin one. “I saw that at once. But she obviously
came here for the very purpose of getting publicity for her story. How
can she be convinced to keep quiet? Now that she has been here, and met
us, in the bargain?”

“The safe way, then,” said the fat one. “No use arousing any more
inquiry than is unavoidable.”

“It has been laid on, just in case,” the thin one said smugly. “Speaking
of inquiry, Gorob, are you aware that we must abandon this house because
of you?”

“No. No.”

“You were seen entering last night. You were recognized.”

“I doubt that.” The Colonel bridled.

“You know that. The woman heard it stated to the public. That is how she
came here.”

“Why did we not hear it?” But the Colonel knew the answer to this. Those
sidewalk interviews had seemed useless, boring, time-wasting and
unimportant. His masters had turned the broadcast off, to discuss and
assimilate the news of failure.

“Quite enough, of course, that it was stated,” the fat one said. “The
Americans will be around to ‘check it out,’ as they like to say.” (Gorob
began to feel time pressing.) “We shall be leaving within the quarter
hour.”

“I see.” The Colonel did not ask his next question aloud. He wondered
it. “Am I?” he wondered.

They did not say whether _he_ was. He didn’t trust them.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Lurlene, in another room, thought they were certainly being very nice to
_her_, around here, for a change. The woman had respectfully brought her
a cup of tea and some little cakes. And now the woman said to her, “If
you would care to come and wash, madame?”

“Say, thank you very much,” said Lurlene archly, getting out of her
chair. The cakes _had_ been a little sticky. In any event, Lurlene
wanted to do what was proper and expected of a great tragic figure. Say,
maybe they knew she was going to be on TV pretty soon. She thought these
people were certainly thoughtful. The woman actually bowed before she
turned to lead the way.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The bathroom looked pretty fancy, for an old place like this. Then
Lurlene noticed that the tub was half full of water. Was she supposed to
take a _bath_, for heaven’s sakes? She looked a second time. “That water
don’t look clean to me,” she said. It certainly looked kind of funny,
kind of brownish-greenish, and there was stuff floating in it, too.
Lurlene bent and put her fingers into the water. “Hey,” she said, “this
is ice cold! Listen, _I_ don’t get the big—”

The woman had a hard hand at the back of her neck. Two men were there,
suddenly. Lurlene got the big idea in a few seconds, as her face went
into the sea water. For all her threshing, it stayed there, long enough.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Therefore, at eight o’clock that evening, the Tyler house was besieged
more violently than ever.

Just at dusk, Lurlene Tyler’s fully clad body had been fished out of the
ocean. Mitch had rushed to where she had been taken. The cause of death
was drowning. In sea water. No sign of foul play. Suicide?

                 *        *        *        *        *

But why? Why? Why?


                                   30

The whole house had recoiled upon itself. All draperies had been drawn.
Sam, having snipped the wires to the doorbells, was stationed in the
front hall. Hilde was near the back door. The family was in the lanai.

Duncan was pacing. “We’ve got to give them a story. There has to be at
least a theory. The one thing the human race can’t stand is an absolute
mystery. They’ll hunt and they’ll pry and they’ll guess. Consider how
many mysteries we have, here. Nobody knows what got into Lurlene. Nobody
knows what Rufus intended to do at the airport.”

“Except that he didn’t go there to tell about a bomb,” said Phillida,
“although they have that theory.”

“All right.” Duncan stood corrected and went on. “But we can’t go out
there with the true story, and even if we thought we should, the fact
is, we don’t know it. Nobody knows where Rufus was all night. Not a one
of us knows whatever got into him, that he tried to shoot the Prince of
Alalaf in the first place. There _was_ no reasonable reason. Which is
pretty intolerable.”

“He had an unreasonable reason, I suppose,” said Tamsen, in pain.

But Duncan kept thinking of that piece of paper, on which Lieutenant
Dennison had made his “rough” notes. “We’ll have to incorporate what
_is_ known,” he said, “into some kind of story. They’re human. They’ve
got television cameras out there.”

The Judge, who had done his private duty long ago, and told all of the
truth he knew—to people who needed to know it, but who would not, for
reasons, tell it everywhere—was feeling the peace of the acceptance of
the finality of death. He couldn’t, in the moment, rouse himself to
Duncan’s anxiety. To life’s fitful fever, he thought dreamily.

He said, “I don’t think I can cope, Duncan. I don’t think I am the one
to go out there and tell them a story.”

Phillida said, “I don’t think I am, either. I would be willing, but I’m
not the kind who could.”

Tamsen chirped up. “If somebody would help me, with what to say . . .”

“No, no,” said Duncan, but with appreciation. “You haven’t the gift,
honey. Or the authority. I suppose, after all, this is up to Maggie.”

“Yes,” said Maggie. “Yes, I know.” She said to the Judge, as if he had
asked her, “I’m all right.” Then she looked at Duncan. “You did very
well. You may come, too.”

“We can share it off, maybe?” said Duncan. “_I_ can wind in and out of
what’s known about Rufus.”

“I’ll speak of Lurlene, then.” Maggie nodded sharply. “All right? It is
a mistake to rehearse too much when you are basically going to wing it.”

“Is there a theme?” Duncan asked keenly.

“The theme is tragedy,” said Maggie in a low voice. “For this family.”
She turned up her plain face. “God knows, but there may be more than one
kind of truth.”

“Amen,” said the Judge, rousing himself after all. “And I’ll come too.
No, I won’t speak. I may need to know what you say.” The Judge had
realized that the peaceful contemplation of finality was not for
him—not for a while yet.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan went out alone to make the arrangements. They wanted a television
interview. It would be on the portico. Duncan bore himself soberly,
waiting out the preparations, the lights, camera, the set made ready.
The decision was that all questions would come from off camera. For
their picture, they had a star.

But all the theatricality seemed to have been knocked out of the
incomparable Maggie Mitchel by what had happened, in real life, to her
own children. She was just a woman, a sad and stricken woman, trying not
to let her bewildered sorrow be a nuisance, the way any decent woman
would try. Bearing up, not going to make a big scene, speaking somewhat
monotonously, and faltering sometimes.

Lurlene had not been feeling well at all last night, she told the world
through the relentless lens and sound track. “So we put her to bed and
kept her overnight. Then, this morning, we were all . . . well . . .
upset by all that was happening. Lurlene seemed to be feeling better
. . . I mean . . . in her health. She did cry. I recall that, now. I
thought it was nerves.”

“When did she leave, Miss Mitchel? I mean, Mrs. Tyler?” Tragedy deserved
hushed questions.

“About the middle of the morning, I think it was. She said she wanted to
go home. I didn’t understand at all. I thought she just wanted to go
home, that’s all. It might have been something to do with my son’s
leaving here last night—and not coming back at all.”

“How is _he_, Mrs. Tyler?”

“He is not well at all.”

(The Judge thought, Bad lines! No playwright on earth would have written
this dreadful sequence of repetitious “all” sounds! Well, she is still
incomparable.)

Duncan cleared his throat, touched his mother’s arm, and took over. “The
fact is, my brother . . .”

Maggie didn’t use her handkerchief. She didn’t smile. She didn’t cry.
She just stood numbly, in the shelter of her husband’s concern for her,
as any stricken woman would.

“I’m afraid my brother is having a serious breakdown,” Duncan said.

“Has he told anything yet?”

“What happened last night, Mr. Tyler?”

“How did he find out about the bomb?”

“We have been trying, of course, to piece it together.” Duncan was using
a lecturer’s manner, sounding a little wordy and stuffy. “We do know
that when he left here last evening, this Colonel Gorob also left, at
the very same time. Now, I had better say that this is theory, at best.
However, we do get the impression that my brother was . . . or may have
been . . . picked up by those people. It is possible that he may have
been given drugs of some kind. They may have been trying to find out,
from him, some things they wanted to know. Such as the security
arrangements for Prince Saiph. But we believe that if anything of this
kind did happen, he must have got away from them at some time during the
night.”

At this point, the flow of his much qualified “statement” was broken by
a question.

“What about your brother’s arrival at a police station, around twelve
o’clock?”

“Yes. Yes, that is what I mean.” Duncan congratulated the bright pupil.
“He did go to that police station, as you know. Now, I myself went there
as soon as Lieutenant Dennison called this house, in a very
understanding way, I might add.”

Duncan was feeding them a wild yarn in as long-winded and boring a
manner as he could. “By the time I arrived, he had slipped away, and
this, I might add, was no one’s fault, really. Why he left there, as he
did, we do not know. Whether he feared that those same people were on
his . . . er . . . trail again.” Duncan apologized for a gaudy word, “Of
course, they may have been, for all we know.”

Duncan had the stage, although they had kept Maggie in the picture. She
was helping by giving him a stillness of attention. But his listeners
were becoming restless.

“Yes, but, Mr. Tyler, what is your brother’s story?”

“He tried at that time, as you may know,” said Duncan, “to give the
police his story. Obviously, he knew by then that there was a plan. That
a crime was to be committed. A ‘big important crime.’ He said as much.”

Duncan intended to go down the notes that existed on a piece of paper in
that police station. The “rough” notes. He was going to rough them up
some more. Several of his listeners were taking notes right now.

“That would be the bomb on the plane, you think, Mr. Tyler?”

“That would be it, presumably. My brother seems to have tried to tell
them that the boy was to be killed. But he was very difficult to
understand. He still is. He does say ‘shots.’ Lieutenant Dennison was
shrewd enough to surmise that he may have been drugged. You see, if they
had given him shots of some kind, and perhaps had overdone the dosage,
that would possibly account for his having been so rambling and
incoherent.”

Duncan stopped and bit his lip. “There has evidently been damage,” he
said flatly, “to his speech centers.”

“You mean he can’t talk _yet_?”

“He tries very hard,” said Duncan, looking suddenly younger. “Oh, yes,
he does keep saying that someone ‘wouldn’t let him go.’ So that seems to
indicate that he was imprisoned somewhere for some period of time.”

(Duncan thought he was sounding like a perfect ass. All right.)

“Where did he go, though, when he left the police station?”

“We do not know, in full detail. The police were looking out for his car
during the night, but they had no luck. It is our theory that since he
must have known what was planned for the royal plane, when he realized
that he could not speak clearly enough, he could not put his words
together in such a way as to make himself understood, he felt he simply
had to stop the thing anyway. So he must have gone as directly as he
could to the airport. His car _was_ found there, finally.”

“That’s right.” Another piece clicked in.

“He must have known the time for departure. After all, it was on the
air. We hear that he was seen—or was thought to have been the man who
was seen—in the coffee shop there, very early this morning. We suppose
that he was trying to pull himself into condition, into some shape to be
able to talk, to tell somebody ‘before it was too late.’ In fact, he
said _that_ to the gate man.”

Duncan was speaking more vigorously now. He put on a proud look. “As a
matter of fact, he _had_ pulled himself together, to the point that when
he came to that gate he _did_ speak rather clearly.”

“So then they had to go and knock him out, right?”

“Yes, they did. However, you must see their point of view. Those
men—the man who hit my brother, for instance—can’t be blamed for doing
what was done. My brother looked . . . well . . . very much disheveled
after the kind of night he must have had, and he _was_ running, as you
know, toward the royal party. It was the duty of those men not to let
anyone near the Little Prince.” Duncan was being terribly “fair.”

“Too damn bad, though,” somebody said.

“Well, it worked out,” Duncan said, “for Al Saiph. I think that’s all,
really, that we can possibly say until we know more.”

“I’d like to ask you . . .” said one of the interviewers. “Mrs. Tyler?”

“Minute,” said somebody. The camera wanted more of Maggie, and closer
up, if there was going to be any more of her.

“Mrs. Tyler?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think there is a connection between what happened to your son
Rufus, and what happened to his wife?”

“There may be,” said Maggie sadly.

“Mother,” said Duncan (who never called her “mother” in real life).
“Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“No,” said Maggie. “No, it isn’t. _I_ want to say”—Maggie had drawn
herself up—“that I have tried, as hard as I can, to understand how poor
Lurlene could have taken her own life. But I knew her.” Maggie began to
shine with the look of reckless honesty. “And I don’t believe she did
that! I knew her _very_ well, and I don’t believe it was in her
character. I don’t think it’s possible that Lurlene could have done such
a thing. I don’t believe it!”

Duncan stepped quickly between her and the camera’s eye. “Take her
inside, Dad?”

So the Judge took Maggie gently inside, while behind Duncan there was
some protest, much murmuring, and a few cries of “Thanks.” “Thanks very
much.”

When he turned around they had stopped taking pictures. They had had
their “dramatic highlight.” Duncan, alone, waited out the brief final
barrage.

“Lurlene didn’t leave any note, did she, Mr. Tyler?”

“Said she was going home, eh?”

“Same clothing as when she was found?”

“Didn’t live too near the beach, did they?”

“No, they did not,” said Duncan, answering the last one. “Will you
excuse me now, please? At least the Little Prince is safe, and we can
all be very glad of that.” He put on a pained smile, but they hadn’t
waited for his final asininity. They were leaving him.

He left them, and went in.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Within the shrouded house, the Judge was already on his telephone.
Duncan went back to the lanai, feeling so deep a depression that he
could hardly wade through an account of his part of the interview.
Phillida said she wouldn’t bother to remember the ins-and-outs of it
all; she intended to take up the position of refusing, as usual, to
discuss her husband’s patients.

“Do, dear,” said Maggie wearily.

Tamsen said, “What you told them was only supposed to be guessing.” She
was weary and in pain, but she wanted to be helpful to somebody. “So it
wasn’t really—”

“Lying?” Duncan pounced. “Oh, yes, it was. Even the guesses were lies.
They left Rufus our hero, didn’t you notice?”

Then he was ashamed to have indulged himself. He said to his mother,
“Mitch will take care . . . of taking care of Rufus now, won’t he,
Maggie?”

The Judge came hurrying. He had news.

The dead body of Colonel Gorob had just been found in an otherwise
deserted old Spanish house on Mynard Street. The informant said that the
house had been under surveillance all afternoon, until the time had come
when it had seemed . . . well . . . rather dead. There were indications
that the Colonel, who may even have been the aggressor, had fought hard
for his life. Some vanished tenants were suspect and wanted, and
furthermore, guessed to be of a dubious political character.

“I guess that takes _us_ off the hook for a while anyhow,” said Duncan,
rubbing his head with hard hands, because it had been a rough day and he
couldn’t shake off his depression, “Gorob won’t be talking. You realize?
Now that ‘they’ have killed Gorob, there is going to be a big fat
theory, marching with my lovely guesses, that ‘they’ also murdered
Lurlene. You wait and see.”

The Judge said, “I wonder how they ever got hold of her, poor girl.” His
lips were shaking.

Duncan found himself much startled. “Do you mean . . . ? Maggie really
did guess . . . ?”

His mother said tartly, “I wasn’t guessing. And for once, I wasn’t
acting, either. Did you think I was putting on some sentimental loyal
vote of confidence because Lurlene had been a member of this sacred
family? No, no, no. To drown oneself . . . that takes some resolute
despair. It wasn’t in her character to do any such thing. One minute’s
honest thought and all of you—” She broke away from her nervous anger.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. For both, and all, and everything.”

The Judge sat down beside her with a sigh. What amount of honest
thought, he wondered, can explain the absolute mystery of Rufus?

Duncan said it, heavily: “Will we ever understand? Will we ever guess
what got into Rufus?”

Phillida said brittlely, “Maybe we ought to run people through an
every-six-months checkup for emotional health. They check out
automobiles for public safety.” She seemed on the verge of tears.

Tamsen said, “But _he_ had . . . He was the one who must have had some
kind of resolute despair.” (Yes, she thought, he did try to destroy
himself—within that act of senseless destruction. He tried.) “But he
failed?” she asked, wonderingly.

The Judge didn’t want this kind of talk.

“We didn’t understand, we don’t now; and I doubt we will, in the course
of this evening,” he said severely.

“But oh, I wish . . .” Tamsen began.

Duncan found that he didn’t want any heart to bleed, out loud. “Come on,
Tamsen,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

Phillida said, in her normal fashion, “With quite a load of secrets, eh?
Don’t worry. We’ll manage. I’m going, too. I’ve got a few kids to look
in on.”

“Do, dear,” said Maggie.

So Phillida went away.

But Tamsen said, “I don’t want to leave them alone. If there’s anything
. . .”

“Show a little respect,” said Duncan grimly.

                 *        *        *        *        *

When they were gone, Maggie said, “Secrets?”

“Hush, Maggie darling.”


                                   31

On the royal plane, as it sped homeward, the boy was huddled to his
secret pain, and Inga, who shared this secret, fetched him some water
for the taking of pills. No thought of the U. S. A., behind them, was
present in either of their minds. They had a performance coming up. The
pilot had just informed his passengers that the home airport was already
swarming with people in a mood for turbulent welcome and rejoicing.

The pilot had also relayed a message from Alice Foster to the Princess.
“Love and cheers, from all.”

The Princess, sitting alone, knew that “all” meant Dhanab, who was with
her mother because that male creature had needed to be within the aura
of Jaylia. This was a secret. She thought she would marry Dhanab soon,
now. It wouldn’t be a bad match. Aljedi had been the dashing one, the
one with the verve and the charm. But two people with verve and charm,
in one marriage, had been a bit much. Dhanab was a man of less force,
but not stupid, reasonably attractive. He was the natural regent
(religiously sound) if the old King should die. Jaylia, who had once
expected to be a queen, saw no reason why she should not be one, at
least in fact, until her son grew up. Dhanab could be ruled. The
Princess smiled to herself. She had her methods.

The old King, riding in his private compartment, looked down at clouds.
He had lived a long time. His secret may have been that he knew all
these secrets, and many more besides. If so, such was his destiny.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Duncan Tyler, driving Tamsen home, was thinking about secrets.
Individual human dignity, he decided, required the keeping of some. He
had, for instance, told one of his own, and now wished he had not. Times
change, and the truth now was that he felt enormously relieved to be rid
of the Princess—as well as of the Prince, the King and the whole
shebang. Why should a human, competent to learn, put obstacles in his
own path by bleating forth his current foolishness? Let him, from time
to time, suspect himself of unwisdom.

“Were we wrong?” said Tamsen, who was sitting in a forward lean, looking
very tense and miserable. “Because Rufus needed what he thought was
prominence, should we have just let ourselves be destroyed?”

“Well, we didn’t.” Duncan had been thinking of something else, in order
not to think of this. But it cost us, he thought, now. And something is
wrong, somewhere. (Oh, my brother.)

Tamsen looked at him. She had reminded him of his sorrow and she was
sorry. Now, must she make him sorry for her sorrow to have . . . No, no,
no. There she went, into foxiness, a spiral of guilt and part-time
vanity, not necessarily kind. Tamsen had a new secret. She would have
shot a man to death. She wasn’t going to discuss this not-in-the-least
theoretical limit to her code of ever-be-kind. She was going to have to
think the whole thing over.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Phillida Tyler did not take a freeway but crept home through surface
streets, driving hesitantly and rather ineptly. She made it to the
garage, went up in the elevator with trembling thanksgiving. When she
came into her own place, she sat down to sigh, alone. She had been
living in the weakness of near-panic for some time. But she had
_behaved_ well. So, not having been turned aside from anything she had
been required to do, she could keep her humiliating secret.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Dr. Mitchel Tyler sat in the hospital canteen. He was in the business of
keeping secrets, all day long.

A Dr. Boyer now sat down beside him. “Say, you’ve certainly hit the
headlines, Doctor.”

Mitch grunted.

“Sorry to hear about your sister-in-law.”

“Yes.”

“Despondent for long, was she?” This seemed sly.

Mitch shrugged. The other doctor seemed to be a rumor or two behind.

“There’s always the good old ethical question, isn’t there? Should the
family be told?”

Mitch looked sideways at him. Told what? Lurlene had been drowned. That
was the verdict and it was correct.

“You know, I dreamed up this . . . well, pretty convincing motive for
suicide the other day,” said Dr. Boyer. “Hypothetically, that is.”

“That so?”

“Suppose there is some poor dumb woman. Childless, let’s say for a lot
of years. Suppose one day she says to her husband, ‘Hooray, I’m
pregnant!’ But she happens to say this just about the time he’s been
trotting to some fella, like me, for tests, at last. And he’s just found
out that he is sterile, always was, and always will be. Terrible timing,
wouldn’t it be? Poor woman.”

“Poor man,” said Mitch calmly. “Hypothetically, that is.”

“Right,” said the other doctor amiably. “Say, what does the word
‘ironical’ mean?”

Mitch let out a short laugh. “Look it up,” he advised, and he left.

So Rufus had a secret? Had had. God knew what he had left, now. The
Doctor, trained to cut his losses, cut them (with a pang). Lurlene
hadn’t been pregnant. She had been, no doubt, virtuous, although
probably murdered. Still, poor man. Poor brother.

                 *        *        *        *        *

In the west guest room, upstairs, the male nurse was feeding his charge.
“Open. Open. That’s the boy.”

But Rufus kept letting the soft food dribble out of his mouth. He was
gazing up at the nurse with melting eyes, begging for pity. “Can’t.”

“Sure, you can. Sure, you can,” the nurse said in a comforting croon.
“Come on, just a couple more swallows. Then we’ll tuck you in. O.K.?”

The nurse was thinking, Oh, oh, this one’s sure regressed, and how!
Still, he felt sorry for the poor fellow. “That’s a good boy,” he said,
out of the kindness of his heart.

The swimming eyes shot a second’s worth of life. Don’t kid me, they
said. But then they began to beg again. Am I a good boy? Tell me again.
I will stay here, just like this, if you will tell me again. _I am? I?_

                 *        *        *        *        *

Down in the lanai, Maggie had put her head over against the Judge. “I
act. That’s what I was born to do. But oh, William, I am so . . .”

“Hush. Hush.”

“No. Let me spit the taste out of my mouth, for now. Just now.”

The Judge waited helplessly.

“Oh, William, we said that we would be fair.” She was not weeping aloud,
but her voice keened, as might have been effective in a theatre. He
understood. She couldn’t help that. “We said that we would tell them
all, all three, that they were adopted children. Chosen Ones.”

“We were as fair as we knew how to be,” he said, “and they were all
legally adopted children.”

“And we said that they were, nevertheless, truly our children, and we
would not say different to the world.” The melody rose and fell.

“Yes, and we have not.” The Judge could only stay beside her, wherever
she was going.

“But Mitchel,” said Maggie, “and oh, let me speak these truths, for now.
Just now. Mitchel was not born my son, although he is yours, flesh and
bone.”

The Judge winced a little. Mitch’s mother had been . . . well . . . a
girl. (Oh, young days, white with joy, black with agony! Very little
compromise. But one grows gray.) This excursion of his mind suddenly
amused him and thus restored him.

“And Duncan, God bless him,” Maggie was continuing, “was neither of
ours. The only Chosen One.”

“Yes, darling. Humanly speaking.” The Judge was on balance, now.

“And Rufus,” she mourned, “never yours, was truly born of my body, in
secret, before we ever met.”

(And some things are told without telling, and although Rufus had not
known that he knew, if he had nevertheless known. . . . But this, the
Judge thought, is, or may be, simply nonsense. What shall a little
animal care, except that he is loved and fed? And it was _all three of
them_ we “chose,” and took to love and feed—a little late. Still, he
sought to turn his mind, lest she read it.)

“They were all ours,” he said stoutly, “and are now.”

The somewhat elderly woman lifted her plain face. “More kinds of truth
than one? Truly?”

“God knows, as I dare imagine,” said the Judge in his calm way, “that
all children are our children. None alike, God knows that. But all ours,
just the same.”

“Just the same,” she wailed softly. “All ours. In sickness or in
health.”

“Yes, Maggie darling.” The Judge still heard the mourning music, but he
could tell that she was steadying to turn forward again, and that was as
good as could be. All that was possible.

Yet what it is to be fair “just the same” (he thought in his private
mind) to all these children—who are none alike—we must soon apply our
human wits to discover.

                                THE END




                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES

    Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where
    multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

    Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer
    errors occur.

    Book name and author have been added to the original book cover.
    The resulting cover is placed in the public domain.

    [The end of _Lemon in the Basket_, by Charlotte Armstrong.]