You Too Can Win a Harem

Dream World – May 1957

(1957)*

Randall Garrett

It was the TV quiz show prize that topped them all. Ed Farnsworth was shooting for a jackpot of 75 women—all his own!

-

Edgar Farnsworth, do you have to read the newspaper when you take me out to lunch?”

“Huh? What?” Farnsworth lowered the paper and looked over it at the honey-blonde girl who was sitting across the cafe table from him. “What’d you say, Marie? Sorry, didn’t hear you.”

“I said what’s so interesting in the paper that you can’t talk to me?”

Farnsworth had a feeling that that wasn’t quite what she’d said, but he ignored it. “The Shah of Khivat is in New York, it says; he’s here on the Middle East Oil—”

He got no further. “Edgar Farnsworth! Do you mean to say that you’re more interested in some old Arabian Sultan than me?”

“He’s a Shah, not a Sultan,” Edgar corrected, “and he isn’t—”

“Edgar!” Marie’s voice was a wail. “I don’t care what he is! I don’t care if he’s the Emperor of all Asia! What has that got to do with us? Edgar, if you’d only—”

“Now, Marie—”

“You take me out to lunch so we can talk about our future, and all you do is read the a paper! I could cry!” She sounded as though she already was.

“I’m—I’m sorry, dear.” He laid down the paper, took off his horn-rimmed reading glasses, put them in their case, put the case I his pocket, and said: “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

The girl sniffled for a moment, and then said: “Well, I thought we ought to discuss finances.”

Edgar fidgeted. “Well, dear, I know I don’t make much money, but in a few years—”

“A few years! Why, even if you got to be Postmaster, you wouldn’t be making what Daddy makes—and what chance is there for you to make Postmaster in a few years?”

“Well, a lot of postal clerks, have done it,” he said defensively.

“And a lot more haven’t. I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you do something that will make us a lot of money all at once?”

“Such as what?” Edgar asked. He had always been leery of get - rich - quick schemes, and even Marie’s suggesting it didn’t make it any more palatable.

Such as going on one of these big quiz shows. Why, some of them give away hundreds of thousands of dollars!”

Edgar blinked. “But—but—I don’t think I could answer all those questions!”

“You could too!” Marie said with finality. “When we’re watching TV, you almost always get the answers right.”

“But—but—”

“Edgar, but me no buts.

What can we lose? If we don’t win, we’re no worse off than before, are we? And if we win, we’ll have money that Daddy can invest for us, and before you know it we’ll have enough to …”

From then on, Edgar could not get a word in edgewise. He was hooked.

-

The handsome young man’s face beamed out from millions of television screens across the nation.

“… brings you Mystery Quiz, and the quarter-million-dollar prize! As you know, our contestants are asked one question a week for ten weeks. If they answer all ten questions correctly, they get the grand prize of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Plus—the Mystery Prize!”

In the wings of the stage in the television studio, Edgar Farnsworth waited nervously. For nine weeks, every evening at nine-thirty, he had waited, trying to calm his nerves and keep them calm until the time came for his question.

So far he hadn’t done too badly—in fact, he’d done pretty well, all things considered. He had almost missed a couple of questions, but he’d thought of the right answer at the last moment. He’d been worried every time, though. Some of the questions asked the other contestants had thoroughly befuddled him, and he’d been afraid that the time would come for him to miss one. So far, it hadn’t.

He was up to the last question now. Last week, he had reached the hundred-thousand-dollar mark; this week, if he won, he would carry home a quarter of a million dollars. It didn’t seem real, somehow.

He watched, his jitters increasing bit by bit, while the first two contestants went through their friendly interview, were escorted to the isolation booths, and asked their questions.

The first one made it, bringing her up to the fifty-thousand-dollar level. She was an elderly lady who had chosen Biblical lore, and was correctly able to identify the two men named Ananias in the Acts.

The second one failed, losing his money. He’d chosen science, and had been unable to identify thiotimoline.

Then it was Edgar’s turn.

“And now,” said the quizmaster, “our expert on Current Events, Mr. Edgar Farnsworth!”

Edgar walked out, smiling nervously, amid a burst of applause that quickly died, as the announcer raised his hands for silence.

“Well, Edgar, you’re here for your tenth and final week. Last week, you answered the hundred-thousand-dollar question correctly. You’ve had a week to think it over, so now it’s time to make the big decision.” He paused dramatically. “Now—will you take the hundred thousand, or will you go on to the Grand Prize of a quarter of a million dollars and the Mystery Prize?”

Edgar swallowed. He honestly wanted to quit. He had already won more money than he’d earned in his entire life … until now. He wanted desperately to get out while the getting was good.

As a matter of fact, he’d wanted to get out ever since the first week.

-

But now, as always, he could hear Marie’s voice in the back of his mind: “Quit? Now, Edgar, don’t you be ridiculous! You go on and get all that money!”

“I—I’ll go ahead,” Edgar said weakly to the quizmaster.

“All right, then—here we go for the big money! Just step into the isolation booth, and …”

He went on with his instructions while Edgar went into the soundproofed isolation booth and waited for the question.

Then the quizmaster’s voice came over the speaker in the booth. “All right, Edgar—here is your two hundred and fifty thousand dollar question. Are you ready?”

Edgar nodded, signifying that he was, indeed, ready—although he wasn’t. He didn’t even want to hear the question; he wanted to go home.

“All right, then,” said the quizmaster. “Three months ago, the richest man in the world was in the United States. Now, I want you to tell me, first: his full name; second: what country he comes from; third: his title; and, fourth: the name of the famous jewel he owns.” He paused, then: “You have fifteen seconds.”

The Mystery Quiz theme song played while Farnsworth thought.

All the answers were fairly easy except for the first one. His full name? Edgar knew that leaving out just one of them meant disqualification.

The music stopped.

“All right, time’s up, Edgar. Now, first—”

Edgar swallowed. “Do you mind if we come back to the first question?” ‘ “Fine; we’ll come back to it.”

“All right, then,” said Edgar. “His title is the Shah of Khivat. And, of course, he comes from Khivat. His jewel is a diamond—the Glory of Svetipore.” He stopped.

“That’s right, so far, Edgar!” The quizmaster sounded excited himself. “And the first part? What is his full name? For two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

It’s now or never, Edgar thought. If only he was right—

“Abdallah Ibrahim Shamol Sulyman Imush Ilihu Shakari Hassan Mustapha ibn Yussif ibn Adham.” He closed his eyes. There was a long and agonizing pause.

Then—

“THAT’S RIGHT! THAT’S AB-SO-LUTELY RIGHT!”

The shout almost shattered Edgar’s eardrums, and the shock of suddenly realizing that he was the owner of two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars—minus taxes—sent his brain spinning. His knees felt watery-His eyes wouldn’t focus.

Somebody led him out of the isolation booth to the microphone while people clapped and cheered. He vaguely heard the quizmaster talking to him and vaguely heard himself answer. There would be a quarter of a million dollars deposited in his bank—at least that much got across.

Then he heard the quizmaster’s voice saying: “And now for the Mystery Prize!

“Edgar, as a special guest tonight, we have with us none other than the Shah of Khivat himself!”

Edgar’s eyes bugged out as he saw approaching him a corpulent, pleasantly smiling figure dressed in the luxurious robes of an Eastern potentate. His robes were of white wool and costly colored silks. His turban sported the Glory of Svetipore itself. Around his neck were several strands of pearls the size of marbles. His fingers glittered with rings.

Flanking him were four men—two on either side. Unlike the Shah, they did not smile. Their hard faces held grim determination, and their eyes shifted around continuously, watching everyone in the room. At their sides swung—not scimitars, but efficient and deadly-looking revolvers. However quaintly the Shah and his aides might dress, there was certainly nothing old-fashioned about their armament.

Directly behind the Shah strode a smaller, less ornately dressed man with a beard more pointed and less full than that of the Shah.

“His Exalted Majesty, the Shah of Khivat!” the quizmaster said grandiosely, while the brass section of the orchestra played a long fanfare.

The Shah smiled even more broadly. Then he turned to the turbanned little man behind him and said something in the Khivati language.

The little man stepped forward to the mike and faced the audience. “His Most Exalted Magnificence thanks the people of America for their hospitality.” Then he looked at the quizmaster.

“The Shah,” said the quizmaster, “has asked to be allowed to present the Mystery Prize. I don’t know what it is, and neither does anyone else.”

-

Edgar guessed that the little man with the pointy beard was the Shah’s interpreter and Grand Vizier, Hassan ben Khist. The Shah said something else, and the Grand Vizier said: “His Ineffable Highness is very pleased that the American, Edgar Farnsworth, is so well tutored about our tiny kingdom, and, because of Mr. Farnsworth’s obvious learning, His Absolute Wisdom wishes to present him with a fully furnished home. It will be the Pearl Palace of Khivat with a harem of 75. His Supremacy would be pleased if Mr. Farnsworth would accept.”

The Shah might be pleased, but the Grand Vizier looked anything but happy about the whole affair. He was positively glowering at Edgar.

Edgar swallowed. What on earth would he do with the Pearl Palace of Khivat ...

-

When Marie came up to visit him, Edgar always left the door of his room open. His landlady was a tolerant woman, but she could only be expected to go so far. Marie made coffee on the hot plate while Edgar talked.

“… so I didn’t get a chance to say much, of course. They cut us off the air right after that—time was up. But I guess I’ll tell ‘em I can’t take that palace.”

“Couldn’t you sell it?” Marie asked. She was so dazed by the prospect of having a quarter of a million dollars in her hands that she could hardly say more than a few thousand words. Well, at any rate, the money would be in her hands as soon as she married Edgar. She’d always known he had it in him to do big-things, and she’d told her father so.

“I don’t think I could sell it,” Edgar said. “It isn’t like in the United States. In Khivat, everything belongs to the Shah. He’s not really giving it away; it isn’t a gift in that sense. I can’t do anything with it without his permission.”

Marie poured coffee into two cups, set them on saucers, and handed one to Edgar. “Well, then couldn’t we live in it for a while and then give it back?”

“Huh-uh. The upkeep on one of those places is terrific. We couldn’t possibly afford it, even with all the money we have. No, I’m afraid—”

“Mis-ter Fa-a-a-arnswo-o-orth!” The voice echoed along the corridor from the stairwell. It was Mrs. Blayne, the landlady, calling from downstairs.

“Yes, Mrs. Blayne?” Edgar called back.

“There’s some gentlemen here to see you.”

Edgar wanted to tell her to get rid of them, but he could already hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

Two well-dressed, grim-looking men stood at the open door. “Mr. Farnsworth?” one of them asked.

“Yes—uh—I’m Farnsworth.”

“My name is Phelps. This is Mr. Bannister. We represent the United States Government. May we come in?”

Edgar stood up. “Oh! Sure—sure, come on in! Uh—sit down—have some coffee—uh—”

They came in, solemnly produced identification, and then Mr. Phelps said: “We’d like to speak to you—alone.”

He glanced pointedly at Marie.

“If Edgar’s in trouble, I won’t go!” said Marie.

The man named Bannister looked at her and smiled warmly. “You are Miss Marie Detweiler, I believe? I assure you, Miss Detweiler, Mr. Farnsworth is not in any kind of trouble. But this happens to be important Government business. Highly confidential.”

“But—”

Her protest got no further. “I’m sorry, Miss Detweiler; you’ll have to go,” said Phelps. “Besides, we will have to ask Mr. Farnsworth to come down to the Federal Building, anyway.”

“You mean you’re going to arrest him?”

“No,” Phelps assured her. “As I told you, he is not in any trouble or under suspicion in any way.”

“Well—all right, I guess. But I’m going to see a lawyer anyhow.” Marie’s voice was firm.

“That is your privilege,

Miss Detweiler,” said Bannister, the shorter and somewhat plumper of the two.

Edgar, who had been looking back and forth at Marie and the two men, finally got an edgewise word in. “Uh—Marie—I think I know what it is. It’s about the prize.”

A light lit in Marie’s eyes. “Oh! The income tax! Is that it? Is it about the prize?”

Bannister looked at Phelps. Phelps looked at Bannister. They both looked at Marie.

“Yes,” said Phelps, “it’s about the prize.”

Marie put her hat on her head and snatched her coat. “Now I am going to see a lawyer! Edgar, don’t you pay them one red cent until we see a lawyer!” And with that, she flounced out of the room.

Phelps looked after her. “Women!” he said softly.

Bannister said: “We’ll drive you down to the Federal Building, Mr. Farnsworth. Our car’s outside.”

Edgar saw that he had about as much choice in the matter as a mangy dog in the dog pound.

-

The ride to the Federal Building didn’t take long, but it seemed like hours to Edgar Farnsworth. He tried to find out exactly what the two men wanted, but they told him they’d answer no questions until they arrived at their destination.

They ushered him into the Federal Building at last, took him up to the sixth floor in an elevator, and bustled him into an office. There was a huge desk at one end of the room, and around it were clustered several men.

Farnsworth was introduced around, but he couldn’t remember all the names. Besides the FBI, the Secret Service, and the top brass of the United States Postoffice Department, there were four men from the State Department—including the Undersecretary of State himself!

-

He was offered a seat, and the Undersecretary said: “Have a cigarette?” When Farnsworth apologized and said he didn’t smoke, the Undersecretary lit one for himself and said: “We’re sorry to have dragged you down here at this time of night, Mr. Farnsworth, but there are, as you will see, certain important reasons for it.”

“Well—uh—if it’s about my income tax—” Edgar felt swamped.

“We’ll come to that later,” said the Undersecretary. “There’s something more important than that to consider.” He looked intently at the tip of his cigarette. “What do you intend to do about the Pearl Palace?”

“The Pearl Palace?” Edgar removed his glasses, polished them carefully on a handkerchief, and replaced them. There was absolute silence in the room as he did so.

“The Pearl Palace?” he repeated. “Well—uh—I’m sure I don’t want it. I’ll just tell the Shah ‘thanks’ and let him keep it.”

The men in the room looked at each other, then looked back at Edgar. Edgar fidgeted under the scrutiny of sixteen pairs of eyes.

“Mr. Farnsworth,” said the Undersecretary at last, “I think you know about the touchy situation in the Middle East?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You know the strategic position occupied by oil-rich Khivat?”

Edgar did. He hadn’t become an expert on current events for nothing. Khivat probably had more oil to the square inch than all of Texas.

“Very well, then,” the Undersecretary went on, “then we’ll give you a little more information. The Government is, at this moment, attempting to negotiate a treaty with the Shah of Khivat. We want to make sure that none of that oil gets to Russia or its satellites. In addition, we want to make sure that the other troubles in the Middle East don’t explode again as they did some time back. Do you follow me?”

“Sure,” said Edgar. “But what does this have to do with me?”

“We can’t afford to insult the Shah,” the Undersecretary said. “If you refuse his present, he will be insulted. It’s that simple.”

“But—but I can’t afford to take care of a palace like that!”

“The Government will see to that.”

Edgar thought it over, then shook his head. “No; I’m sorry. I just can’t do it.”

One of the Postoffice men scowled. “May I remind you that you are a Government employee, Mr. Farnsworth?” he said sternly.

“Your Government,” said an FBI man, “needs you.”

“And then there’s the matter of your income tax,” said a Treasury man.

Edgar swallowed and felt extremely uncomfortable. He had a hunch he was going to lose this argument.

He did.

It took half an hour of wheedling, veiled threats, and promises, but at last Edgar gave in—miserably.

“All right!” he groaned. “All right! I’ll go! Marie and I will leave as soon as we’re packed”

The FBI looked at the Postoffice Department; the Treasury looked at the State Department; they all looked at each other. Then they all looked at the ceiling.

“I’m afraid,” said the Undersecretary after a moment, “that she won’t be able to join you—uh—immediately. It—ah—will all be explained when you get there.”

-

Twenty-four hours later, a special transport plane landed Edgar Farnsworth at the small airfield in Khivat. From the air, the little country looked like one vast oilfield, with nothing but derricks everywhere, as far as the eye could see. But there was one little oasis near the airfield, and, as the plane dropped lower, it became apparent that’ the oasis was bigger than Edgar had thought at first.

He was met by a delegation from the Shah himself, a delegation headed by no less a personage than Hassan ben Khist, the Grand Vizier himself. He was still scowling.

“Welcome, O Shayik,” he said, salaaming deeply.

He led Edgar to a Rolls-Royce that looked as though it were thirty feet long. It was driven by a turbanned chauffeur, and had, among other things, an inlaid mother-of-pearl dashboard and diamond-studded doorhandle.

The car roared down the road, flanked on either side by rows of Royal date palms.

-

For several minutes, no one said anything. Then the Grand Vizier said: “That is the Shah’s palace.” He pointed. The huge building looked like something straight out of a Cecil B. DeMille supercolossal.

“Wow!” said Edgar. “That is a palace!”

“Naturally,” sneered the Grand Vizier. “Did you expect a barn?”

“No; of course I didn’t expect a barn!”

“Not even a barn? An outhouse perhaps?”

“An outhouse perhaps what?” Edgar wanted to know.

“I mean, did you expect an outhouse?”

“What would I do with an outhouse?”

The Grand Vizier looked astounded. “You mean you don’t know?”

“Of course not—I mean, certainly I do!”

“Then why did you ask?” Edgar glowered at the little Vizier. “I didn’t ask for an outhouse!”

“You wanted to know what to do with one,” the Vizier countered. “I heard you distinctly.”

“What did I say?”

” ‘What would I do with an outhouse?’ ” quoted the Vizier.

Edgar told him. They didn’t say another word all the way through the rest of the ride.

The Pearl Palace was nowhere as large as that of the Shah, but it was still of colossal dimensions.

Edgar had read about the Pearl Palace, and had seen pictures of it. It was somewhat of a mystery, since no one but the Shah normally went inside it—except for an occasional honored guest.

The huge gate was guarded by a pair of giant blacks who looked as though they had just stepped out of Aladdin’s lamp. They were close to seven feet tall and broad in proportion. They must have weighed more than three hundred pounds apiece. And they, too, were armed—with rifles instead of the traditional wickedly-curved blade of the scimitar.

“This is the Pearl Palace,” said the Vizier. “I can go no further unless you invite me in, since it is yours—not mine.” There was venom in his voice and anger in his black eyes.

Edgar, still angry, said: “Well, I’ll see you later, then. So long.” And he strode in through the gates, leaving the baffled and irate Grand Vizier outside.

He hadn’t gone more than three steps when a fat little man dressed in silk pantaloons rushed forward and salaamed.

“Ah!” he breathed, “it is the Shayik Farnsworth! I am your miserable slave Haroun.” And again he salaamed. He didn’t look miserable; he looked well-fed and happy.

Edgar, taken somewhat aback, said: “Uh—yeah. How did you know who I was?”

“Ah, O Great One,” beamed Haroun, “we were instructed by the Shah himself, and all of us were shown your most excellent likeness—a Kodachrome print, to be exact.”

“All of you?” Evidently there were other servants.

“Certainly, Honored One. We all had to know you, did we not?”

“I mean,” Edgar rephrased the question, “that there must be more of you around.”

“More of me?” Haroun looked baffled. He looked down at his great paunch. “But surely, effendi, there is enough of me here?”

“Never mind,” Edgar said tiredly. “Just show me around the place.” He was beginning to think that this was going to be no vacation.

Haroun’s smile returned. “Perhaps, Honored One, you would care to bathe and freshen up after your long journey?”

“That,” said Edgar, “sounds like the best idea I’ve heard since I’ve been in Khivat!”

-

One thing Edgar had to say for the Shah of Khivat—he kept up with the times. The Pearl Palace dated back to before the Crusades, but now it had electric lighting and hot and cold running water—and air conditioning. Which was a good thing, because the desert winds could get hot—really hot—in Khivat.

The bathtub itself was not so much a tub as a small swimming pool. Fat little Haroun showed him into the room and immediately apologized.

“I would have had your bath already drawn, O Pearl of the West, but I had not been informed as to whether you like it hot or cold.”

“Warm,” said Edgar, “but not too warm.”

“Excellent, effendi,” Haroun said. “I’ll set the thermostat.”

He turned a dial on a nearby wall, and then opened the tap that filled the small pool. Then he bowed himself out, closing the door behind him.

Edgar sat down on a marble bench nearby and took off his clothes. Then he looked around. No soap. No towel. No washcloth.

Oh, well! That was probably what Haroun had gone to get.

He lowered himself into the bath and smiled pleasantly. Perfect. He closed his eyes and lay back. He hadn’t realized how tired he was from the plane trip. He didn’t even bother to open them when he heard the door open again and the soft pad of slippers cross the room. It was probably Haroun, returning with towels and stuff.

Then he heard something being poured into the water. He opened his eyes a crack. And then much wider.

One of the most beautiful brunettes he had ever seen was pouring a bottle of bubble bath into the tub. For a minute, he couldn’t say anything. She was wearing nothing but a diaphanous bit of net, which did absolutely nothing to hide her charms. Nearby, two other girls were arranging towels and a silk robe to be used after the bath.

“Hey!” said Edgar in a strangled voice.

All three of them looked at him. “Yes, Master?” asked the one who was pouring the bubble bath.

“What are you doing here?” He sat up quickly, drawing his knees up to his chest.

“Pouring bubble bath,” said the girl, obviously puzzled at such a foolish question.

“Yes, but why you?”

“Would you rather I did it?” asked one of the other girls.

“Yes—I mean no! I mean, it doesn’t matter! I mean, what are you doing in here? You’re women!”

The girls looked at each other, then at him. “No offense, Master,” said the first girl, “but I should think that would be rather obvious. Did you think we were eunuchs?”

“Of course not! It’s easy to see you’re not eunuchs.”

“May I say the same for you, Master,” the girl returned, bowing graciously.

-

Edgar reddened. He had read enough books to know that this was the way things were done in Khivat, but it still didn’t make him comfortable. He looked down at the surface of the water self-consciously, and noted with relief that the foam from the bubble bath was now acting as an effective blanket, concealing him from the frankly admiring glances of the girls. He decided he’d just have to let them alone until they left. He began scrubbing himself industriously with a washcloth, being careful not to disturb the layer of bubbles too much.

He ignored the girls, pretending to himself that they weren’t even there. It was a tough job.

“Shall I scrub your back, Master?”

Edgar, startled, swiveled his head around. The brunette was kneeling at the edge of the pool-like bathtub, holding a soft brush in her hand. She was much too close for comfort. Her lush figure seemed almost overpowering, and the rich, musky aroma of her Oriental perfume was positively intoxicating.

“I—I’ll scrub my own back,” he said nervously.

“As the Master wishes.” She stood up and walked back to the marble bench.

Edgar found himself wishing she’d stayed. He thought of calling her back and then decided that wouldn’t quite be right. He went on washing.

The girls waited patiently.

Finally, Edgar said: “Well—uh—I’m going to get out now.”

Instead of leaving, one of the girls brought a towel to the edge of the pool while the others held his robe.

That was too much for Edgar. In his mind, he could imagine the girl carefully drying him off. He turned red again.

“That’s all!” he said. “I’ll dry myself off! Go away! Dismissed! Scram!”

He got a reaction he didn’t expect. There was a startled, almost fearful look in their eyes.

“W—We—we go, Master,” they said in unison. Then they ran out the door like frightened rabbits.

Edgar started to call after them, but they were already gone. He shrugged, climbed out of the pool, and began drying himself.

-

Less than a minute later, Haroun popped in. Instead of being his usual smiling self, he looked positively terror-stricken. He rushed over to Edgar, knelt, and looked pleadingly up at him.

“O Noble Master! What have we done to displease you? Woe, woe, woe! When the Shah finds out you are displeased, our heads will roll! And he will be unhappy to find that you are not pleased with his choice of the finest slave-girls in the world! What have we done?”

Edgar just looked confused. “Slave girls? You mean that the Shah will punish them just because I chased them out of the bathroom?”

“Most certainly, Master!”

Then the rest of what Haroun had said penetrated. “And you say the Shah would be displeased with me?”

“Not displeased, O Master,” Haroun said, “but he would be hurt that you did not agree with his choice in women.”

The words of the Undersecretary rang in Edgar’s head. Whatever you do, Farnsworth, do not offend the Shah!

Uh-oh!

-

Edgar assumed what he hoped was a masterful attitude—a difficult thing to do when clad only in a bath towel.

“I am not at all displeased, Haroun,” he said. “Tell the girls that—uh—they did nothing wrong at all. From now on, they may perform their duties as usual. I merely wanted to be by myself for a few minutes, that’s all.” He hoped that sounded convincing enough. The whole affair had a feeling of unreality about it.

A beaming smile crossed the fat slave’s face. He bowed his head low. “Master, they will obey your every command! They will do their duties as they have never done them before! I shall tell them that they are forgiven before they do away with themselves!”

And with that, he leaped to his feet and scuttled out the door.

Do away with themselves? Edgar thought. It was awful to think that three beautiful girls would kill themselves just because they thought he had been displeased. It looked as though he’d have to watch his step.

The dinner that night was everything he could have hoped for. It was served by slave girls who were commanded by Haroun. The fat little slave was at his side every minute, ordering dish after dish, summoning girls with delicious viands on platters, and having them pour Greek, Italian, and French wines into golden cups.

Edgar decided that this assignment from the State Department was going to be all right after all.

“Ah, Master,” said Haroun as Edgar sipped at his wine, “I’m glad that we were given to you instead of to the Grand Vizier—he is reputed to be a cruel man.”

Edgar took another swallow of wine. “Was he going to give you to the Vizier?”

“We thought so,” admitted Haroun. “The Shah is growing old, you see; the Pearl Palace no longer appeals to him. He completely restaffed the place—except for me. I have served him for many years. But all the girls are new-bought slaves. We feared that His Exalted Majesty was going to give us to Vizier Hassan ben Khist, who is a cousin of the Shah, and therefore of the blood royal.

“We do not understand why we were given to an American, but we are happy that it is so. He must have planned it this way from the first, because all of the girls speak English. We bought only English-speaking girls.”

Edgar thought about that. It had seemed odd that a man could win an Oriental palace on a quiz show, and now it seemed even odder. And if the Grand Vizier had thought he was going to get the Palace himself, there was little wonder that he did not care for Edgar Farnsworth.

Haroun signalled for one of the girls to refill Edgar’s wineglass. Then he clapped his hands. Immediately, the room seemed to fill with girls. Some of them sat down and began playing instruments, while the others stepped through intricate dances in time to the weird Oriental music.

“More wine, Master?”

The dance went on.

“More wine?”

-

When the dance was finished, Edgar was experiencing a warm inner glow. He felt absolutely delightful.

Haroun leaned over and whispered: “Which of the girls do you think is the best?”

Edgar pondered the question. They were all good dancers, but he thought the best was the girl who had poured the bubble bath that afternoon.

“That one,” he said, pointing.

Haroun gestured, and the girl came forward. She bowed low and said: “I am honored, O Pearl of Wisdom.”

“Think nothing of it,” Edgar said. “It was a pleasure to watch you.”

“I am pleased that my master should think so.”

Haroun gestured, and the girl left the room. “Her name,” said the chubby slave, “is Ilsabet. A very fine girl.”

“Very fine,” Edgar agreed. He felt good inside. It was nice to know that a few words of praise for a girl’s dancing made her so happy.

“Would you care to retire now?” Haroun asked.

“Come to think of it, it is past my bedtime,” Edgar said. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

-

Haroun led him to a huge, ornate bedchamber paneled in finely polished cedar. The bed itself was big enough to hold ten people, and was covered with broad silken sheets. Haroun bowed low after escorting him inside, and left without another word.

Edgar noticed that his suitcases had been unpacked and the contents were in a huge open chest near the bed. He took out a suit of pajamas, “laid them carefully on the top of the chest, and began to undress for bed.

“May I be of assistance to my gracious master?” asked a low, throaty voice.

Edgar jerked his head around.

It was the slave girl, Ilsabet; she was wearing even less than she had been at the bath.

Good heavens! Edgar began to think. What would Marie think? He grabbed at a silken sheet and pulled it over him. “What are you doing here?” he yelped.

Ilsabet looked at him wonderingly. “Nothing, yet. Why do you always ask that?”

“Ask what?”

“What I am doing? Why do you ask when you can see what I’m doing?”

“I assure you,” Edgar said with solemn dignity, “you can’t see what you’re doing half as well as I can.” The wine was making his head feel fuzzy.

“May I see, too?” she asked.

“I should say not! You should be ashamed of yourself! What are you doing in a gentleman’s bedroom, anyway?”

“There you go again,” she said. “What does a girl usually do in a gentleman’s bedroom?”

“I have never been a girl in a gentleman’s bedroom,” Edgar informed her with offended dignity.

“I didn’t suppose you had,” Ilsabet told him.

“Then why are you asking me silly questions? How should I know what girls do in gentlemen’s bedrooms?”

“Only one,” the girl said.

“Only one what, for heaven’s sake?”

“Only one gentleman’s bedroom,” she explained patiently. “You said ‘gentlemen’s bedrooms’; a girl can’t be in more than one bedroom at once.”

Edgar buried his face in his hands. “Oh, good heavens! You’re confusing me! Go away!”

“Go away? Oh, Master! Have I offended again? You picked me out for this evening; you said I looked like the best; and now—” She began to sob.

Edgar lifted his head and looked at her. There was only one decent thing to do—the indecent. “Now, now,” he said. “Don’t cry! I’m not displeased—really I’m not! I think you are wonderful! I think you are beautiful! I—”

“Oh, Master! Then you do approve!” She ran to the bed and threw her arms around him. Her lips were suddenly against his, and her soft hands were caressing him. At that distance, the heady perfume was more dizzying than the wine.

“Approve? Certainly I approve,” he said when he came up for air.

He proved it to her.

-

After a week, Edgar Farnsworth found himself completely at home in the Pearl Palace. There were books to read, a hi-fi set with a monstrous collection of records, all the food he could eat, all the liquor he could drink, and everything else he wanted. And at least seven of the girls positively adored him.

He still felt pangs of conscience about Marie, but, after all, he was only doing his patriotic duty.

And yet, even so, he realized that the sybaritic life was beginning to pall on him. If a man has everything he wants, what is there to fight for? He wanted to do something, not just spend his life loafing. He wondered how long it would be before the Shah signed the treaty so that he could get back home.

By the end of the second week, Edgar was definitely feeling itchy to get out. He knew that at least fourteen of the girls would miss him terribly, but he couldn’t help that. Dammit, he wanted to get out and go somewhere!

But he had learned that it might not be too healthy to go wandering around Khivat. The Grand Vizier’s agents were prowling around everywhere, and they might just accidentally slip a knife into the American who had usurped the palace that should have been given to Hassan ben Khist. The Pearl Palace had a guard of its own to protect him while he was inside, but prowling around the derrick-bedecked landscape of Khivat was out of the question.

It might have been okay if the Shah were in the country, but he was still in the United States, which left the government in the hands of the Grand Vizier, at least to a certain extent.

On the fifteenth night, he sat in his room, staring moodily out of his window at the moon, wondering what Marie was doing. How long would it be before he could see her again?

He heard a noise behind him. “Is that you—uh—” He stopped. Which girl was it? He turned around to see.

And ducked barely in time.

A knife whistled by his head and buried itself in the cedar paneling with a loud thunk! Across the room, standing in front of an opening in the wall, was the Grand Vizier, Hassan ben Khist himself! His beady black eyes glittered with hate, and his mouth, beneath the black whiskers, was twisted in an evil grimace.

Drawing a huge scimitar from a sheath at his side, the Vizier advanced. “Infidel dog!” he snarled between clenched teeth. “I may have missed with the knife, but I will not miss with this!”

He charged forward—

—and tripped on the rug.

The scimitar slipped from his hand and skittered across the floor. With a flying leap, Edgar flung himself desperately on the prostrate man.

For the next few minutes, the two men rolled back and forth across the floor, smashing at each other with fists and trying to get strangle holds on each other’s throat.

Finally, Edgar managed to land a blow solidly on the be-whiskered chin. The Vizier was groggy, but not out, so the American grabbed his neck with both hands and began to squeeze.

“Stop!” said a commanding voice. “My Vizier has had enough, Mr. Farnsworth!”

Edgar turned and looked. It was the Shah of Khivat. He, too, had come through the secret opening in the cedar panels. Behind him were two huge Nubian guards with drawn pistols.

Geek! thought Edgar, I’ve had it now!

“Arrest that traitorous Vizier!” the Shah commanded.

-

The guards went forward and dragged the half-conscious Hassan ben Khist back through the secret panel.

“My boy,” said the Shah, “I want to thank you for what you’ve done.”

“What did I do?” Edgar asked in confusion.

“Acted as bait for a little trap I set. My villainous cousin has been in league with the enemies of your country and mine for several years. I am an old man and may not live much longer, and, if I were to die, Hassan would become Shah. So I made it seem as though I were going to give the Pearl Palace to him, then I suddenly gave it to an American commoner—a stranger. I knew it would make him so insanely jealous that he would try to come in here to kill you eventually, and I’d have him.

“It is forbidden by ancient law for anyone to enter the Pearl Palace without an invitation of the Shah. The penalty is death.”

“But—you’re supposed to be all-powerful here! Why didn’t you just have him—uh—removed?”

The Shah looked shocked. “Why, my dear Mr. Farnsworth! That would be illegal! We are a law-abiding people!

“No, it would have been wrong. It was much better to set this trap.”

Edgar swallowed. “But I might have been killed!”

“It would have been in the service of your country,” said the Shah solemnly. “And to kill a guest of the Shah is punishable by the Ultimate Torture, which would have given me great pleasure. You would have been handsomely avenged.” He sighed. “As it is, I fear we will just have to behead him.”

A sudden thought struck Edgar. “Say! I didn’t know you spoke English! How come you needed the Vizier as an interpreter?”

The Shah smiled. “Hassan didn’t know I speak your tongue. I had to have some excuse to get him over to America.” Then his smile grew broader. “And now what do you intend to do, my friend?”

Edgar didn’t hesitate. “I’m going back home to my quarter of a million—and Marie. I’ve learned a few things about women, thanks to you. I’m going to teach her a lesson or two.”

The End