Tony’s conscience said bitterly that since he was going to be killed anyhow, he might as well make a fight for it; but if he’d only listened at any single instant since Mr. Emurian offered him two thousand dollars for that ten-dirhim piece—
He swore softly. He felt singularly absurd, standing in the middle of a dusty, sandy plain with a cigarette lighter clutched in his hand, two small stones in his pocket, and with a multitude of lunatic shapes watching intently from the mountainsides about, and misty, ghost-like whirlwinds spinning expectantly beyond them.
For a long time, nothing happened.
“War of nerves,” he muttered indignantly.
The small stone which was Abdul quivered, and seemed to inflate like a balloon. Abdul appeared in his customary shape, very much agitated.
“Lord! Do you see him?”
“Not yet,” growled Tony. “I suppose he’ll fly to contact as a mosquito and then materialize as a boa-constrictor at close quarters. Stand clear if he does.”
“He cannot do it, lord,” said Abdul, nervously. “He can take the shape of an insect, but as an insect he will be too heavy to fly. Our weight is the same regardless of our size, lord.”
“Good!” said Tony, gratified. “Then in sand like this he can’t crawl up as a centipede, either. He’d bog down.” Abdul wrung his hands.
“I spoke too soon when I offered you my allegiance,” he said bitterly. “It is my opinion, lord, that he will fly to a great height as a giant bird—he will need great wing-spread to fly—and then turn to a stone and drop upon you. That is an accepted form of combat.”