“I take a great risk,” said Abdul plaintively. “Lord, will you permit me to obey you?”
“No!” snapped Tony. “Go to the devil! Get out!”
Abdul sighed. Mournfully, but elegantly, he turned into a large mass of black, inky liquid which sank in funeral fashion to the floor and flowed toward the doorway. But it did not open the door—it went out through the crack underneath. Tony was alone.
He looked at the cigarette lighter in his hand. He touched his three separate pockets where phials of lasf —one almost empty, now—reposed. He reflected with savage satisfaction that it was not likely that he could be killed without some mangling, and that at least one of the bottles of lasf was practically sure to be smashed. And Tony’s information on lasf was confined to about three sentences from Ghail, and one experience. And the picture of the leaf the Queen had drawn. That was all he knew. But he could extend his knowledge of a common phenomenon in the United States and guess that the Barkutian use of lasf was woefully inefficient. With a cigarette lighter he could do better.
The door opened again. The commander of the guard of honor was back. He saluted profoundly.
“Lord,” he purred. “The king has made the proclamation you requested. He has appointed a place for the combat. He has given Es-Souk safe-conduct, and Es-Souk has appeared from hiding in the form of a rug on the audience-chamber floor and prepares himself for battle.”
“Very well,” snapped Tony, “I’ll go there at once. If he isn’t afraid, he’ll follow immediately.”
The djinn captain saluted again, with enormous formality, and withdrew for the second time.
Something stirred on the floor. A cockroach waggled its feelers imploringly, turned into an explosively expanding mistiness, and condensed again as Abdul.
“Lord!” said the stout djinn imploringly. “Hear me but a moment! The walls of this palace hear and report to the king! I asked to obey you. The king will know. If you do not accept me and protect me, I am lost!”