GRIEF OF BAGDAD

By KELVIN KENT

Pete Manx Rides the Magic Carpet Back to an Ancient City—and It’s No Caliphornia Stunt!

“No,” said Pete Manx, “Never again. This is my final word.”

Dr. Horatio Mayhem smiled sadly, glancing about his famous laboratory at Plymouth University with its welter of apparatus ranging from huge dynamos to the most delicate detector, and most sensitive selectors, all subsidiary to the incredible Time Chair. He nodded.

“Yes, my boy. I understand your aversion to making any more trips into the historical Past. You have been a um—lodestone for violent trouble …”

“Something always happens to me!” exclaimed Pete. “What if I sh’d get bumped off in the Past? Nix. No more o’ that stuff for me.”

“Quite right, my son. And yet—” Mayhem’s benign tone and dreamy stare at the ceiling were pure barn. “I would never have invited you here again, Pete, knowing it to be a place of strange memories, except that occasionally in our lives there arise demands that transcend all selfish personal considerations. Do you follow me?”

“No, but I smell something fishy.” “Tut, tut.” Mayhem signaled surreptitiously to Professor Belleigh Aker, who waited beside the door to the office. Quickly Aker leaned over a portable phonograph, then flung open the door. A burst of martial music filled the lab, a flag unfurled in the doorway, and into the room marched a middle-aged man in officer’s uniform.

“I give you,” cried Aker, “Colonel Henry Crowell, U.S.A.!”

He paled as the significance of this elaborate act dawned on him. Mayhem and Aker were putting on the pressure again and he could guess the reason. He wanted Army service, or any fighting for his country, but another hectic journey into the Past—huh-uh!

Colonel Crowell approached and gazed at Pete’s undersized, though tough and wiry, figure.

“This is the man?” he asked incredulously.

Dr. Mayhem beamed.

“The most well-traveled man in world history, Colonel. Shrewd and able.”

Pete stared at Mayhem suspiciously, like a turkey hearing the ax being whetted.

“Well,” the Army man said, “I’ve heard some amazing things about you, Mr. Manx!”

Pete blushed modestly, and the colonel sat down.

“I won’t kid you.” the colonel said. “I came to ask you a favor in the interest of national defense. As you know, we face a grave crisis and no stone is being left unturned to strengthen our military position. Now, men of your cosmopolitanism know there are scientific secrets, valuable ones, lost in the past. The Mayans, the Lemurians, the builders of the pyramids—all show indications of scientific advancement which we can’t match. Right?”

Pete’s heart did a quick wing-over and spin.

“Yeah, but them guys never had any knowledge of military stuff that’d do us—”

“Ah-ah ! Don’t be too sure. There’s one secret, if we can find it, that would make us masters of the air. Ever hear of the magic carpet?”

PETE had seen the Thief of Bagdad in the movies. He nodded.

“Of course,” Crowell continued, “it may only be a fairy tale. But historical research has shown us that the wildest fairy tales and legends often had their basis in fact. Now, if some early oriental discovered how to defeat gravity think what it would mean to us to rediscover that secret. How easy it would be to defend our cities; we could suspend great platforms in the sky with the heaviest cannon on them. We could hover ten miles over the enemy and rain bombs down. The science of aviation would be revolutionized! You would be immortal, Mr. Manx!”

“I’m just about immortal now,” Pete muttered with waning resistance. “Why pick on me? Anyone could make the trip.”

Professor Aker broke in eagerly.

“Not so, Manx. You are the best fitted. As you’ve made so many Time trips, Dr. Mayhem has plotted with utmost accuracy your Time Potential, and can project you almost exactly wherever we wish. We couldn’t do that with a stranger.”

“Besides,” added Mayhem, “it takes a man of wits and initiative like yourself to handle situations after he gets there.”

This rank flattery shattered the remnants of Pete’s resolve. He looked at the Time Chair, shuddering, and fixed his mind on the glories of patriotism.

“Okay,” he sighed. “Shoot the jolt to me, dolt.”

Quickly the preliminaries were completed. Power surged about the lab, shaking its very walls with muted dronings. Mayhem fiddled with dials and switches. Pete took his place in the Chair, one ear taking in Professor Aker’s explanations to the curious Colonel Crowell.

“Our proven concept of Time is that of a complete, coexistent circle, at the hub of which exists what we may call a Central Time Consciousness. Our apparatus releases the mind from the artificial barriers confining it to the present. Once within the Central Time Consciousness, it comes within the influence of a sort of psychic centrifuge, and is whirled out again into the mind of a person in the preselected era. Quite simple, as you can readily see …”

The Colonel seemed a little dazed.

“The Chair, of course, ties the mind immutably to its body in the Present, so the Traveler never gets beyond our control or lost in Time.”

Aker surreptitiously mopped his face with relief, and was spied so doing by Pete. The latter started up.

“Hey! I been framed! I ain’t the only one with experience in this thing! What about Aker? He’s able to make the trip—”

Hastily Aker reached past Mayhem toward the switch.

“Six weeks, Pete!”

Zung-g-g! There was a crackling, and quite suddenly the body of Pete Manx became revoltingly corpse-like. Only the most subtle instruments could have detected life therein. For the tenth fantastic time, Pete Manx was suffering with amps in his pants.

HIS first impression was of an overpowering odor—a combination of unwashed people, goats, and dogs, plus the sharpness of many spices, with a dash of putrescence from the quaintly oriental sewage disposal system. It was not altogether unpleasant.

Conquering a touch of nausea, Pete looked about him. He was apparently standing in the hot sunlight on the main street of ancient Bagdad. The uproar was terrific. Children fought and played shrilly in the streets. Hawkers in the bazaars shouted their wares. Thieves and cut-purses operated brazenly, resulting in many a wild race with indignant citizens chasing the criminals in vain.

Pete sighed at this display of crudity; he always preferred his crime on the subtle side. He glanced at his clothing to judge if he were rich or poor, and to decide whether he would be able to live in quietness while pursuing his quest of the magic carpet.

He was dressed as most of the other inhabitants—loose, wide trousers, cotton kami from neck to ankles and a sash round the waist, red leather slippers. A turban completed the costume. A leather purse yielded a few odd coins, nothing more. Pete sighed. Probably he was a worthless lout again. How monotonous.

A voice caught his ear with a Persian equivalent of “Oh, nuts!”

A boy in his late teens squatted in the shade of a wall, looking disgustedly at an empty brass bottle. Pete had, on occasion, looked disconsolately at at empty bottles, but not at that age.

“What’s cookin’, bud?” he asked.

The boy stared.

“I do not cook, master. I am the victim of a cheat of a magician who sold me this bottle, which had the seal of Solomon, son of David, on whom be peace.”

“How’s that, chum?”

“He vowed that if one maketh certain motions and pronounceth certain words, a genie will appear from the bottle to do one’s bidding. But nothing hath occurred. I have been defrauded.”

Pete leaned over and patted him on the back.

“Kid, you don’t realize it, but more terrific magic than that has just been pulled off under your nose.”

The lad was quick on the uptake.

“Then thou art the genie?” he asked eagerly. “Whence comest thou?”

“From very distant lands, pal,” Pete swaggered, “that ain’t even been discovered yet. In fact, I won’t even be born for about eighteen centuries. That’s me, the genie with the light brown hair. Ha, ha!”

The youth failed to crack a smile. “What great magic!” he whispered in awe. “If thou’rt the genie, bring me great wealth at once.”

Pete grinned. He was enjoying himself kidding this yokel.

“That takes time, bud. Us genies don’t produce the geetus from thin air. We fix things so it seems to come natural-like. Be patient.”

Pete’s agile brain was already at work. He would need a native, possibly, to help him get around with his inquiries about the flying carpet. Why not this credulous lad, who already had a proper appreciation of Pete Manx’s importance in the scheme of things?

“Stick with me, chum, an’ you’ll wear diamonds. What’s yer name?”

“Ahmedalhazred.”

“I’ll call you Sabu. And you can call me—” Pete paused; naturally he didn’t know the name of the man whose body he was temporarily usurping. “Oh, just call me Bo.”

“As thou wishest, O Bo. What dost thou plan first?”

“As a matter o’ fact, I come here on a little personal business. Look. Is there a guy around here who operates a magic carpet?”

SABU stared blankly; he had never heard of so wondrous a thing. “It’s a flying carpet.” Pete elaborated. “Goes through the air like a Spitfire—I mean just like a bird. Maybe you seen it zooming by, huh?”

Sabu registered bafflement. Pete shrugged in disgust. If the boy couldn’t help, he would just make some inquiries till he found someone who could. Discreet inquiries of course, not open advertising, else he might arouse competition for the secret knowledge.

With Sabu trailing behind still clutching his worthless magic bottle, Pete began his questioning. Weavers, tent-makers, coppersmiths, merchants, wine-sellers—all the businessmen in several blocks along the crooked thoroughfare were interviewed. Not one had so much as heard of the aerial carpet, and many looked rather queerly at the none too affluent stranger who asked crazy questions.

Twice Pete spoke to petty chiselers who promised, with secretive glances, that for a sum of money they would make contact with mysterious, informed personages who couldn’t be reached at the moment, and would Bo meet them here tomorrow? Pete laughed scornfully at such obvious punks.

One thing seemed quite clear; the existence of the flying carpet was not commonly known. Perhaps the inventor was keeping it a secret. Pete pondered. It was obvious that he must contrive to make the inventor come to him, rather than continue an interminable and probably unsuccessful search. How? By offering some sort of profit.

Pete hunkered down in an alley and began to think furiously. Sabu watched, awe-stricken. Pete might start a war, in which the owner of a flying carpet could make a fortune. But military experiences at the siege of Troy weren’t exactly unqualified successes. Besides, people were always getting hurt in wars. No, the war idea was not so good.

Finally Pete came to the perfect solution of his problem. Vaudeville! Introduce the delights of vaudeville to these Persians, offer big money for new and original acts, and indubitably the magic carpeteer would learn of his big chance to cash in. He would come as inevitably as flies to honey.

Once he had the inventor located, Pete had no doubt of his ability to wheedle, bribe, steal, or slug the secret of the carpet from its owner.

“Okay!” he cried, jumping up. “I got it!”

Sabu’s eyes widened.

“Hath aught been revealed to thee in a vision, O Bo?”

“Yeah, yeah. A vision. All I need now is a theatre. I mean, d’you know of a place I can rent a big building?”

Sabu thought, then suggested the home of a recently deceased wealthy jewel trader. His harem had been disbanded by his sole heir, a spinster sister, and now the place stood practically empty. Apart from the mosque, it was the most nearly suitable place in Bagdad that the lad could think of.

WITHIN the hour Pete presented himself to the lady in question. Behind her veil she was homely enough to have gotten a job in any dairy souring the cream, but this type was all the easier for Pete’s savoir faire. Glib-tongued, suave, he knocked her off balance with rank flattery, then floored her with his fast-talking business proposition.

“Babe,” he said, “it’s the birth of vaudeville, and don’t ask me why. It’ll sweep the country, and I’m the guy what can do it. We’ll take this barn o’ yours—it ain’t earnin’ you a dime, I mean a kran, and what d’you want with such a big joint, anyway? —and turn it into a real investment. You’ll be known throughout the Orient as a benign patroness of the Arts.

“Of course, I realize the financial gain involved doesn’t interest you so much, so we’ll just sign for a nominal ten per cent of the net profits. By coincidence I have a contract right with me, just a little one-year lease with options and permission to make alterations.” Pete whipped out parchment and quill smoothly. “Right here, if you please. On the dotted line …”

A flirtatious glance, a sly squeeze of the hand, and she was Pete’s, body and soul. More to the point, so was her property.

An architect came next, and he was induced to remodel the building to Pete’s specifications, in return for another ten per cent of the net, if any.

Pete opened his office in one corner of the new theatre with the sign, “Theatrical Agency. Talent Wanted,” hung in the window. He also plastered Bagdad with throw-sheets asking for entertainers, promising glittering rewards for those who could qualify. Then he sat back to await prosperity.

Prosperity, unfortunately, was reluctant to be wooed by this brash stranger. Entertainers came, it is true, but they were all alike. They were girls who danced at banquets and stag parties; to the last female, the only thing they could do was the Dance of the Seven Veils.

“That’s okay as far as it goes,” Pete exclaimed to Sabu in disgust, “but you can’t make a vaudeville show outa one act, can you?”

“I know not, O Bo.”

So Pete took the seven best hoofers, made a chorus, and taught them some of the simpler tap routines he had once known many centuries in the future. He named the act Dance of the Forty-nine Veils.

“It’s plain to see,” he observed, “that I gotta be the director of this show as well as the producer.”

Sabu’s bottle gave Manx his first idea. Aided by a coppersmith, he fashioned one of those trick stage jugs which appear to empty themselves of water time after time. Pete, in his varied career, had once stooged for a rather good magician. Naturally he had picked up a good many of the master’s tricks, and now they came in good stead.

He worked out a magic act for himself, nothing elaborate but sufficiently clever to amaze the local yokels. There were some simple card tricks, a many-pocketed coat with the usual assortment of eggs, coins, and rabbits, and the act climaxed by sawing Sabu in half. The equipment was paid for by another promise of ten per cent of the profits.

NEXT Pete scouted around for musicians. There were a few street singers and beggars strumming on three-stringed mandolins, and he also found two down-at-heel fellows who played on a flute-like instrument. The music was weird, sing-song stuff, like Raymond Scott a little off key.

He whipped together an octet of strings and woodwinds, with a percussion section featuring a home-made drum. Not at all satisfied with the current taste in music, Pete simply wrote his own—three pieces, all that he could remember offhand: Beat Me, Daddy, Eight to the Bar, Boogly Woogly Piggy, and a rough rendering of Glenn Miller’s arrangement of the Volga Boatman.

By the time he had thoroughly rehearsed his orchestra, one of the girls had blossomed forth with real talent, and was elevated to the position of specialty artiste. Stalling for time, Pete promised the cast another ten per cent if they would be patient.

“It’s tough, kid,” he sighed to the awed Sabu. “Sometimes people don’t savvy the genius of a true promoter.”

When the show finally premiered, however, Pete considered his troubles practically over. It was a smash hit. Bo’s Bagdad Burleycue (Come One—Come All! Plenty of Persian Pretties !) played to S. R. O. before the first week was out. Money poured in so fast Sabu, promoted to theater manager, became dizzy trying to keep accounts.

Pete, of course, was preoccupied with his main purpose, trying to locate the elusive roving rug. By twos and threes, then by dozens and finally by the hundreds, hopeful entertainers thronged Pete’s offices trying to persuade the Great Man that they were born vaudevillians. Jugglers, minstrels, acrobats, itinerant storytellers, and others swarmed about like a plague.

Pete trained two assistants to catch the acts, which were monotonously alike and usually lousy. All he wanted to know was—had any of them ever heard of a guy with a flying carpet? None had.

Presently another difficulty arose. Pete was not surprised; he had yet to travel in Time without something going amiss. Sabu came to him breathlessly one morning with a message.

“O Bo,” he gasped, “the mighty Ali Ben Mahmoud demands thy presence!”

Pete sighed.

“Who’s this Ben? Why don’t he see me here?”

“Ali Ben Mahmoud, O Bo, is the caliph of Bagdad.” Sabu lowered his voice fearfully. “A very wicked caliph, O Bo, whose people groan beneath unjust taxes and walk in terror of his displeasure.”

Pete smiled cynically.

“Crooked politics, hey? What’s he want?”

“I surmise that thou hast incurred his displeasure with thy vaudeville. It angers the caliph when another maketh more money than he.”

Pete glanced down at his tailor-made silks, glittering with jewels. He smiled with some vanity.

“We are in the dough,” he said complacently. “Well, let’s put this smalltime politician in his place.”

Sabu hesitated.

“It would be better, O Bo, wert thou a man of high social estate. Hast thou a title in that far land whence thou come?”

“I was a corporal in C.M.T.C. once. I guess nobody will kick if I promote myself. From now on you can call me major.”

“Excellent, O Major Bo. It will impress the caliph. Follow me.”

THE palace to which Sabu led Pete was an ornate structure of the Persian hybrid architecture of domes and minarets and semicircular arches. Ali Ben Mahmoud, however, though pretentious in a fat and bejeweled way, was anything but hybrid. He was pure, unadulterated chiseler from turban to sandals. Pete had known too many sharpshooters to make any mistake about this one.

He bowed low, tipping his turban at a rakish angle.

“Major Bo, at your service, Caliph. What’s cookin’?”

Ali Ben gave the flippant visitor a basilisk stare, while pawing through an acre of surrounding food for a chop to gnaw on.

“It hath come to my ears,” he said, “that thou seekest a magic carpet.”

“Yeah, Ben. Somewhere around here a guy has invented a flying rug. I’m tryin’ to locate it.”

“If there be any such marvel in Bagdad, it belongeth to me.”

Ali Ben and Pete exchanged a long look. Pete swallowed. This was what he had feared, tough competition that he would have trouble in bucking.

“Sure, Ben, if I get it. If I find the thing, I’ll bring it right around. All I want is a few words with the inventor, anyway.”

“Not ‘if,’ O Major. Thou seemest confident of the existence of such a magic carpet. If ‘tis not brought to me forthwith, I shall suspect treachery. That would be unfortunate.” He drew one fat finger playfully across his throat, but Pete could see he was not joking.

Pete began to sweat.

“Gimme time, Ben. Say, four weeks, huh? I oughtta locate it by then.” He smothered a smile when the caliph acquiesced. If he failed, inside of four weeks he would be safely back in the twentieth century.

Ali Ben Mahmoud tossed a ruined drumstick aside, replete.

“Lest you misunderstand, Major Bo, I have imposed a new tax. Fifty tomans a day for all who promote entertaining in theaters.”

Pete shrugged. That was chicken-feed. But the caliph continued:

“Shrug not, O Bo. This tax increaseth each day by fifty tomans, thus to insure thy most earnest efforts in the search for the flying carpet.” He smiled benignly. “Tax defaulters, of course—” He again made the cute little throat-cutting gesture.

Pete gulped; they evidently played for keeps in Bagdad.

“Okay, Ali, if that’s the way you want it. I’ll do my best.” Wherewith he bowed himself out of The Presence, muttering angrily.

Back at his office, Pete realized things would have to hum. In ten days that mounting tax would be more than his profits could handle.

At once he began to organize road-shows. The beauty of the scheme was that, besides increasing revenue, it would send his agents to all parts of the kingdom and multiply his chances of catching the eye and ear of the cagey magic carpet inventor. These Major Bo’s Units were whipped together and sent out by caravan at the rate of one a day.

By the end of a fortnight, Pete’s touring tyros were laying them in the aisles all over the country. But his agents, though they returned with tales of success and bags of gold, brought not a word of the traveling tapestry.

STALLING for more time, Pete cast about for more sources of revenue. He found that his boogie-woogie was sweeping the country, being played and sung from public house to harem. Promptly he organized the Fraternal Order of Loyal Song Composers and Publishers, consisting of himself and Sabu.

With the help of the caliph, whose coffers were beginning to creak with the mounting tax collections on Bo’s vaudeville, a law was hurriedly passed which forbade anyone so much as to hum a FOOLSCAP tune without first buying a license to do so. A dictatorship has its points, Pete mused.

Sabu was horrified with this alliance with Evil, despite the increased income. Pete tried to pass it off nonchalantly with the famous ward-heeler political aphorism, “If you can’t lick ‘em, then join ‘em.”

But Bo had his worries, and they increased geometrically. Ali Ben Mahmoud wanted the secret of the flying carpet. He was also jealous of the ability of the upstart tycoon, Major Bo, and determined to smash him. He could have Bo executed, of course, but Bo was now a very popular man in the kingdom; repercussions might repercuss. Besides, there was more in it for the caliph by taxing the financial genius to ruin.

Ali Ben watched Pete’s frantic squirmings with dispassionate detachment, to see just how much the man could really earn before the rising tax rate caught up with him.

There was no real escape; Pete knew that. It was a race against time. He had to pyramid his enterprises and expand them so as to hold out till Dr. Mayhem rescued him. FOOLSCAP enabled him to meet the racket payments for several more days, but a week yet remained.

His wits had never worked more smoothly. Already he had introduced the use of cosmetics and exotic hairdos on his chorus girls. The situation was ripe for public exploitation. Desperately he rounded up some artists, instructed them hurriedly in the delicate art of make-up, and opened the Chez Bo — Coiffures, Cosmetiques; “Be Beautified By Bo.”

As all big-time beauty parlors, the Chez Bo was a colossal success. Bagdad babes were pretty awful beneath their veils, and there was plenty of room for lipstick, rouge, face creams, and what-not. Unfortunately, though the returns still kept the caliph’s tax collectors at bay, there was no news of the restless rug.

As doom approached with each hour, Pete surveyed his financial empire with horror. The ramifications of Bo’s entertainment enterprises and their subsidiaries were almost endless. When the crash came, it would make the debacle of Ivar Kreuger, the Match King, look like a pitiful imitation by comparison.

Inevitably, of course. The Day arrived. The tax mounted too high to be met; Pete sent the leering collector home empty-handed. Within an hour the street resounded with the tramp of hooves as the Camel Police rode up to arrest him.

“Sabu,” said Pete sadly, “this is the end. We ain’t found that magic carpet so the joint is pinched. You better scram while the scrammin’ is good, kid. Take your liquid assets and lam till the heat’s off.”

Sabu got the general drift of the genie’s strange tongue. Bo, alas, was about to return to the magic bottle, never to appear again, perhaps. But Sabu was loyal. Bo had promised him great wealth, and had kept that promise; therefore Sabu would not desert him.

Pete started to argue the lad into fleeing at once. For once he had outsmarted himself, having calculated things too fine. Before he had finished talking, and just as the cops pushed in, the world began to slip out of focus, slantwise, in the familiar distortion that carried the Time Traveler back home again …

Zung-g-g!

PETE heaved to his feet, one hand indelicately over his mouth. He made gobbling noises. Professor Aker trotted into the deserted lab.

“Ah, there, Manx!” he said anxiously. “Nausea? We didn’t expect you for an hour or so yet. Was the journey successful?”

Pete flung himself onto a couch, quickly readjusting himself to his own world. He listened impatiently to Aker’s questions.

“Quiet!” he interrupted finally. “There ain’t no magic carpet, an’ that’s that. Now keep still and lemme think.”

Minutes passed, and Aker began to fidget in alarm. A speechless and pensive Pete was a strange phenomenon, indeed.

“Anything wrong, Manx?” He ventured.

“Plenty.” Pete grunted. “There’s a nice kid back there in Bagdad who’s in a terrific jam ‘cause o’ me. An’ the guy whose body I took over—boy! Is he in trouble! Look, Prof, answer me this one question.”

He posed his problem, received a puzzled but very accurate reply.

“Okay, Prof. I gotta go back there in a coupla days. Make it four. Can you work the Time Chair without Mayhem?”

“Of course, my dear fellow.” He nodded and stared keenly at Manx. realizing there were hidden depths in the tough little man’s character. For him to return deliberately into whatever hornet’s nest he had inevitably stirred up, just to help a boy who was now dust centuries old—that took courage.

“You realize that whereas we can send you back to about the same time, we couldn’t possibly say as to whose mind you will enter.”

“That’s okay,” Pete agreed. “It couldn’t be any worse’n it was when I left.” He grimly strode to the Time Chair once more, watched Professor Aker adjust the delicately sensitive selectors. “Let ‘er rip!”

Zung-g-g!

Again the blinding sunlight beat down upon Pete Manx, but this time the clamor of Bagdad was gone. Instead was a whispering silence, and Pete stared around wonderingly at a desert.

He was dressed in fine silks again, but with burnoose instead of turban. He sat astride a magnificent black horse, a veritable Whirlaway. Behind him, obviously awaiting his command, was a hard-bitten crew of some three dozen well-armed fighting men.

It was evident he was now a nomad, leader of a band of desert raiders. Ahead lay the glory that was Bagdad, wavering in the heat waves. His course was plain. He speared a brown, muscular arm toward the distant city.

“Thar’s where we’re a-headin’. Dig in them spurs, cowboys!”

The bandits yelled fierce approval.

“Our sheikh Hassan speaks mighty words! Onward!” The riders thundered across the desert.

When they came to a dusty halt beneath the walls of Bagdad, the guard of the city gates stared suspiciously as Pete rode up.

“What dost thou wish?” he wanted to know.

“Open up!” Pete cried imperiously.

“Open! Huh! Says who?”

“Open, sez me !” retorted Pete. “Special envoy to Ali Ben Mahmoud!”

The bluff worked. The guard looked around uncertainly, then opened the gates to allow Pete and his men to pass through. Little did Pete realize that the effect of his strange command was to be told and retold through the bazaars and, distorted by time, become a legendary password—Open Sesame.

THE same manner did not open the gates of the caliph’s residence, but an added sentence did the trick. “Tell Ali I’m the inventor of the magic carpet,” he announced.

A messenger vanished into the mansion, returned pop eyed.

“The stranger is permitted to enter forthwith,” he said. “Alone.”

Pete grinned insolently and ordered his whole gang to follow. They did, right into the presence of Ali Ben Mahmoud. As usual, the caliph was eating, popping grapes into his mouth and spitting out the seeds like a machine-guner. Poker-faced he stared at the wild-looking delegation.

“Thou’rt the maker of the flying carpet?”

Pete nodded.

“That’s me. And I’ll make one for you right in your courtyard, provided you’ll agree to one condition.”

Ali turned his attention to some pears.

“So?”

“You probably got a guy named Major Bo and a kid named Sabu in the jug. They ain’t done nothin’ wrong. Free ‘em and the carpet’s yours.”

Ali downed a goblet of wine.

“I could make thee divulge thy secret,” he observed, “without concessions on my part.”

Pete bared his teeth confidently, looked around at his men. He gloried in a sense of power. The situation was delicately balanced. He did not have sufficient strength, of course, to seize the caliph and whip his army; out-and-out warfare, while Ali Ben was still in the picture, could end only in disaster for Pete. However, he could make a lot of trouble, and he figured that rather than risk his fat hide, the caliph would gladly make the small concession asked.

The release of Bo and Sabu was important before Pete could set his plan in motion; else he might be whisked back to his own time before rescuing the lad.

“Maybe,” he allowed, “but Ali Ben Mahmoud, on whom be peace, is all-wise. You realize you can have the secret without trouble. Why waste time and blood?” He glanced around at Ali’s personal guards.

Ali pecked at some sweetmeats, cogitating. Then he clapped his hands. “Bring Bo and the lad with the bottle,” he ordered.

All hands stood around in an armed truce, waiting alertly till two battered figures were brought in. Major Bo was a wreck of a man whose mind was on the verge of collapse. Sabu had been explaining to him all that he had done during the past weeks, none of which he understood. The boy was in better shape, though plainly despairing.

Pete grinned at him.

“Hey, kid, been rubbing that bottle again?”

Sabu stared at Hassan, still clutching the brass bottle.

“Why, O Sheikh?”

“Because the genie’s back again. Only it’s in me this time, see?” Hope flared in Sabu’s eyes.

“Ai! Thou’lt save me and Major Bo?”

“Yep. You two are free, only stick around with me a while. And promise never to rub that bottle again. It’s made a mess o’ trouble.”

“Enough of this strange talk,” the caliph interrupted. “I understand it not. Besides, where is the magic carpet, as promised?”

“I’ll get busy on it right away, Ali. Just get me a flock o’ weavers and a coppersmith.”

WORKING day and night without benefit of union contract, the weavers made a tremendous silken tapestry that covered nearly the entire courtyard, shaped like a five-pointed star.

They also made a gigantic harness and a wicker basket. As the use of varnish dates back to great antiquity, Pete easily made some. He melted sandarac in warm oil and applied the stuff warm. By afternoon of the second day the coat of varnish was dry. Across the center of the whole thing Pete splashed the cabalistic symbol: P-38.

The caliph, no longer blandly unemotional, inspected the mystic figures with ill-concealed superstition.

“This is the magic carpet?” he demanded.

“Yeah, man. Fastest thing that flies. An’ you’re gonna be the first to ride on it!”

Ali Ben nearly strangled on a forgotten mouthful of fruit. But, putting on a bold front, he sat cross-legged on the carpet and commanded it to fly. Pete hurriedly explained it wasn’t quite ready yet.

Meantime Pete had instructed his coppersmith to make two slender bits of copper tubing, each fifteen inches long, and another shorter cylinder six inches long and three in diameter. This was supported by twin tripods, and filled with iron filings.

“Now if you’ll gimme that brass bottle, kid,” he said to Sabu, “I’ll make with another genie pretty soon.”

“Bismallah! A brother genie, lord?” Sabu quivered in fearful delight.

“You said it.” Pete filled the bottle partially with water, then joined bottle and cylinder with one copper tube, while the other tube led away from the cylinder.

That evening he climbed a tower, with the caliph watching narrowly, and scanned the countryside. The sky was clear, the horizon sharp in the sunset. Pete shook his head and came down.

“The—er—signs and portents ain’t just right. Tomorrow, maybe.” Next morning he went through the same ritual with the same result. The caliph began to get restive. Fortunately, on the evening of the third day, Pete found the horizon obscured by low-lying dust. Sandstorm.

Pete returned grinning.

“Tomorrow ayem’s the big moment, Ali. Get lots o’ sleep tonight.” Then he added to his workmen, “You know your instructions; get busy. I’ll fire up the boiler department.”

The weavers in puzzlement drew up the corners of the five-pointed silken blanket, and sewed the edges together, leaving a small hole. Into this Pete fastened a hollow reed with a crude flap valve inside. The seams were hastily varnished.

“May leak a bit,” he said, just as though there was a single soul in Bagdad with the faintest idea of what he was talking about, “but not much.”

Turning to his bottle-and-cylinder contraption, he built small, hot fires beneath each. Presently the water began to boil, and the steam passed from the bottle over the iron filings.

“Y’see,” Pete elaborated to Sabu, “with steam, iron brought to a red heat interacts vigorously, according to Prof. Aker. The oxygen in the steam combines with the iron and makes iron oxide. What’s left is hydrogen.” With which he plugged the end tube into the reed leading into the now sack-like magic carpet.

ALL through the night Sabu refilled the brass bottle as fast as it was emptied; more and more hydrogen hissed into the balloon. At first sign of its uneasy stirrings, weavers and coppersmith fled screaming. Only Pete’s warriors had the courage to stay and watch the big gas-bag finally rise and hang, tugging mightily, against the night sky. Pete had foresightedly thrown harness and attached basket over the balloon before it rose. The whole thing was tethered to Ali’s fountain.

By dawn the windstorm hit hard, but behind Bagdad’s sheltering walls little of it was felt. Ali Ben Mahmoud gave it not a thought as he gaped at the monster which had been born in his garden overnight.

Pete bowed with a flourish.

“The magic carpet, O Lord, awaiting its brave passenger, the courageous Ali Ben Mahmoud.”

The balloon wavering above the caliph’s walls had attracted quite a crowd, and Pete had discreetly spread word of how the grave caliph was to ride the rug that morning. A half-hearted yell arose as Ali was spied through the gates. Thus, with Pete having neatly put the pressure on him, the caliph was obliged to go through with it.

Ali stepped into the basket

“Just command it to rise,” Pete said, “and up she’ll go. Command it to descend, an’ see what happens. If you wish to descend faster, throw out the rocks I put in there.”

“Arise, o magic carpet,” Ali quavered to the bulbous giant.

Pete’s scimitar severed the tether. The bag rose and was promptly caught by the wind raging above Bagdad’s walls. It shuddered, swooped, and soared away. Ali Ben Mahmoud was last heard screaming at the carpet to descend, frantically bombarding the city’s roofs as he tossed out the ballast.

In three minutes Ali had passed from view, and the populace was already festively expressing its heartfelt joy.

“Well, that’s that,” said Pete. “I hereby proclaim Sabu the new popular caliph of Bagdad. Me an’ my—er—retainers will be your advisers in a gentlemanly sort o’ way. Always be a good ruler, kid. The people already like you an’ Major Bo. So just keep taxes low, encourage trade, put down crime, be merciful. Now my time’s about up. This is the genie signing off, kid. So long—”

Sabu’s face was a mixture of bewilderment, pride, and sorrow at the departure of the mightiest of all genies, indeed.

Zung-g-g!

The lab at P. U. whirled once and came to a gentle stop. Pete sighed with relief and stepped from the Time Chair to greet Professor Aker, Dr. Mayhem, and Colonel Crowell. Crowell scowled.

“Professor Aker tells me you have failed in your solemn mission.”

“Oh, I dunno. It’s a fact there wasn’t no magic carpet, till I invented it.” Pete passed over this hastily. “But it wouldn’t interest the Army. However, I did figure out a way to get rid of Hitler. It worked swell in ancient Bagdad. I pulled a coup d’etat.”

“Coup d’etat!” The colonel raised his eyes to heaven. Ice clung to his words. “Gentlemen, I am sorry to have wasted your time and mine in this fruitless endeavor. Even if the whole thing has not been a gigantic hoax, it is obvious that the scope of your invention has been greatly exaggerated!”

“I done my best to help,” said Pete plaintively.

COLONEL CROWELL jerked his cap in irritation. “The War Department,” he announced, “is not going to like my report on this episode. Good-day!” The door slammed behind him.

The two savants stared at each other angrily.

“How,” inquired Dr. Mayhem, “do you like that? We propagandize Manx into making the trip, do our best to aid national defense, and what thanks do we get? I’ve a notion to send Colonel Stimson a bill for the power we used!”

“Nix. I’m jinxed enough as it is,” Pete moaned. “You old duffers needn’t worry; you’re too old to fight, but I want to and they’ve turned me down just because I’m over thirty-seven. And me with military experience.”

Aker snorted derisively.

“What military experience?”

“Artillery, that’s what. I got a special aptitude for a highly specialized job.”

“Such as what?”

“I useta earn ten bucks a shot at Casey’s Carnival,” Pete sighed. “I was the Human Cannonball!”

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