Tony’s conscience said acidly that it had told him so. He was not aware of any other mental process. He simply stared, open-mouthed. And the djinn leaped on him with incredible agility.
* * *
Sinewy, irresistible powerful hands seized his throat. They tightened, and then relaxed as the djinn said gloatingly:
“You shall die slowly!”
Then the hands tightened again, bit by bit.
Tony had not lately taken any systematic exercise greater than that of punching buttons in an automat restaurant. It was hardly adequate preparation for a knock-down, drag-out with a djinn. He clawed at the strangling hands with complete futility. Then a strange calmness came to him. Perhaps it was resignation. Possibly it was a lurking unbelief in the reality of his experiences, somewhere in the back of his mind. But being strangled, even if it were illusion, was extremely uncomfortable. He remembered a part of the basic combat training he had received before being assigned to sit at a typewriter for the glory of his country’s flag. An axiom of that training was that nobody can strangle you if you only keep your head. All you have to do—
Tony did it. Because being strangled is painful.
He reached up with both hands, and in each hand took one—just one—of the djinn’s sinewy fingers. One complete human hand is stronger than the single finger of even a djinn. Tony peeled the single fingers ruthlessly backward. Something snapped.
The djinn howled and hooted like an ambulance. Tony hastily repeated the process. Something else cracked. The djinn howled louder, and let go. There were dim shoutings and rushing in the corridors of the palace. But Tony remained alone, gasping for breath, in the high-ceilinged room with this creature who said he was Es-Souk the betrothed of Nasim. By now Tony remembered Nasim only as a beaming misty face and a pudgy human figure which had seemed exclusively pink skin. Es-Souk swelled to the size of an elephant, beating his breast and hollering.
Tony coughed. His throat hurt. He coughed again, rackingly.