“Nasim liked it, eh?… here comes Es-Souk! Level off, Abdul, and let him get on our tail. When he comes diving in I’ll do my stuff, and when I yell you put on the heat. Get away from there fast! Understand?”
“Aye, lord.” And then Abdul wailed from that misty emptiness which was the chimaera’s face, “If I ever get out of this, I will never speak so soon again! I will never offer allegiance to any other—”
The very mountains seemed like toadstools below them. Tony could see over uncountable square miles of desert and foothills. He even thought he saw a dark smudge against the horizon which might be the oasis and the city of Barkut—
Tony felt a shadow fall upon him—the shadow of the roc, a thousand feet above. It screamed at him.
“Get set now,” said Tony, between his teeth. “Ready—let’s go! He’s diving, Abdul!”
The roc flattened its wings, partly folding them, and came rushing down in a deadly plunge. Actually, Es-Souk was still at least partly bluffed. Tony had been too confident, and Es-Souk was a cagey djinn. He’d had one experience of hand-to-hand fighting with Tony, and he had sneezed so horribly that—knowing what he knew—he had been scared to the very last atom of his fissionable being. But since Tony was now some twelve thousand feet above ground-level, on chimaera-back, it would be possible to kill him even more surely than by tearing him limb from limb. A furious assault upon Abdul, in some tender member, should make the djinn- chimaera react in typical djinn fashion—by metamorphosis. Abdul could definitely be forced to change to something else. And if he failed of absolute presence of mind, he would forget to include Tony’s saddle and safety belt in his new shape, and Tony would thump into the desert below in a completely conclusive finish to the duel.
So the roc plunged savagely—seemingly for Tony, but intending a last-second swerve and the chewing-up of one of Abdul’s chimaera-wings. In sheer self-defense Abdul must repair the damage by changing form, and—
“Brakes, Abdul!” commanded Tony. “He’s not gaining fast enough!”
Abdul slowed—and the roc gained. Closer—closer—its great beak gaping. It was almost time for the swerve and the slashing attack which would send Tony plunging some two miles and more to death.
Tony shouted, “Now, Abdul! Brake hard! That’ll make him overshoot—”