He saw them clearly this time. Both the American who wore the purple and red of an Aladdin, and the nude blond American woman with more arms than were wholesome.
They were tearing off sections of track and using them as bludgeons. Each time a blow fell, the entire rickety roller coaster trembled like a precarious house of wooden matchsticks.
"Who is winning?" asked the foreign minister.
"It is as before," Azziz returned. "They are stalemated. Yet they seem tireless. What manner of beings could these be?"
No one had an answer to that.
Presently the defense minister had an idea.
"Perhaps there is a way to defeat them," he offered, his dark eyes alight.
The president lowered his field glasses. "Tell me."
"Gases. We will pour war gases down upon them."
"Will this work?"
"They have noses. They must breathe like mortals. If they breathe the gases in, they must die."
"Is it not dangerous to us?" wondered Azziz.
The defense minister shrugged unconcernedly. "The wind is from the east. The enemy are to the west. We may lose some of our western sector, but we will lose more than that if this madness continues unchecked."
The president considered only a moment. "Do it," he commanded.
Since the only missile battery in Abominadad had been decimated, the defense minister had to call the outpost of the Abaddon Air Base in order to effect a Scud strike.
"Yes, that is correct," he said. "I did say to launch your missiles at Abominadad. The western sector. The former Maddas City. You can do this?"
The defense minister listened. Absently he reached up to brush his mustache. Touching bare flesh, he felt a stab of fear. Then he remembered. It was safe to be without a mustache in Irait now that Maddas Hinsein was no more.
When the word came back that the missiles would soon be launched, the defense minister said, "Thank you," and lowered the phone to its cradle.
He heard the click just as the president shouted, "Wait! Do not launch!"
"Why not?"
"The wind has now shifted this way! In the name of Allah, call them back!"
Frantically the defense minister picked up the receiver. He began stabbing the keypad, his eyes starting from his head, his face sprouting a hot sheen of sweat.
Two rings later a bored voice said, "Achmed's Tyre Emporium."
This time true fear clutched at the defense minister's heart and would not let go. He stood there, his eyes stricken, the annoyed "Hello? Hello?" assaulting his unhearing ears through the trembling receiver.
"You have called it off?" shouted the president.
The defense minister hesitated, his tongue a cold slug of fear in his dry mouth. Should be reveal that he had misdialed, or should he try again? With a new president it was impossible to tell which was the survivable option.
Then all choice fled the defense minister's mind.
From beyond the windows where the rest of the Revolting Command Council watched came a low roaring. It swelled to a screech, and at the apex of the sound came a steady crump crump crump.
Air-raid sirens wailed. From roofs all over Abominadad, antiaircraft artillery opened up, sending reddish-orange tracers streaking into the clear heavens.
The faces of the Revolting Command Council turned, eyes wide, mustacheless mouths forming identical bloodless lines. They regarded the defense minister with stupefied expressions.
Recognizing his predicament, the defense minister decided to lie.
"It was too late," he said miserably. "My loyal forces, eager to perform their sacred duty, could not wait to execute my order. It is done."
"So," said President Razzik Azziz thickly, "are we, brother Arabs. For all three missiles have missed. One has landed on this side of the Tigris. There are gases coming this way."
Then a gruff voice asked a deceptively innocuous question. It was the last voice any of them ever expected to hear again. It chilled their marrow as it asked:
"Where are all your mustaches?"
Chapter 15
The voice repeated its harsh question: "Where are all your mustaches?"
As one, the right hands of the Revolting Command Council of the Republic of Irait flew to their naked, exposed upper lips.
"Which traitor among you is responsible for the disaster that has befallen our proud nation?" demanded the stern voice of Maddas Hinsein, Scimitar of the Arabs.
He stood in the doorway, flanked by blue-bereted Renaissance Guards. This evidence of their loyalty established without fear of contradiction, he waved them from the room. The door closed.
Fear roosted in each man's eyes. Paralysis gripped their very bones, as if their marrows had congealed.
In that moment's hesitation, Maddas roared, "I demand an answer!"
Deaf to the last dull crump coming through the window behind them, oblivious of the nerve-gas cloud that was lifting over the western skyline, the Revolting Command Council pointed at the current president of Irait, Razzik Azziz, who they realized was destined to go down in Iraiti history as the shortest-lived ruler since pre-Islamic days.
President Razzik Azziz realized this too. He pointed at the others.
"Precious Leader," Azziz said, sick-voiced. "They insisted I take your place. I told them, 'But no Arab could do that. It is preposterous.' They all refused the honor. Irait was in desperate straits. What could I do?"
Since the order to relax had not been given, the accusing fingers remained leveled. Arms trembled from nervous strain.
Maddas Hinsein, resplendent in a jet-black military uniform festooned with so much gold braid and green tinsel that he resembled a Christmas tree in mourning, put his hands on his thick hips.
"The hostages have been set free," he growled. "By whose orders?"
The fingers continued pointing.
Maddas nodded. "Our beloved capital has been gassed. By whom?"
The fingers stabbed the air anew. President Azziz switched hands.
Maddas nodded. "You have shaved your mustaches. Who allowed this?"
The fingers strained emphatically. Stiff features began melting like wax effigies.
Then President Razzik Azziz made the mistake that had cost more Iraiti officers their lives than enemy fire over the course of a decade of war with neighboring Irug. He attempted to reason with Maddas Hinsein.
"But, Precious Leader," he stuttered, "we thought you were dead. We shaved only to express our profound loss."
For a moment the fleshy brown face of Maddas Hinsein wavered in its scowl. His gruff features softened. A sudden moistness leapt into his calflike eyes.
"My brothers," he said, laying a hand over his massive chest. "You thought to honor me so? I am touched."
"We are glad you approve, Precious Leader," said President Razzik Azziz, lowering his aching arm.
It was then that Maddas Hinsein pulled his pearl-handled revolver and shot the man once in the belly.
Razzik Azziz was carried backward by a dumdum bullet that exerted over twelve thousand foot-pounds of velocity. It actually lifted him off his feet just before he slammed into the wall at his back.
He made a big red smear on the paint as he slowly slipped down to a sitting position, an uncomprehending expression on his freshly shaved face. As if radar-guided, dozen digits followed him down.
"The rest I could forgive," said Maddas Hinsein, stuffing his weapon back into his holster. "But only a fool would believe that the Scimitar of the Arabs was dead. Maddas Hinsein will die when he is ready, not before."
"We believed you were still alive," chorused the surviving Revolting Command Council members, their fingers still accusing the shuddering corpse that had been Razzik Azziz. "But he made us shave at gunpoint."
"Next time this happens, you will take the bullet in your brains before you lift a razor to your faces," ordered the Scimitar of the Arabs.
"As you command, O Precious Leader," they promised.