Murray Leinster - Gateway to Elsewhere

“His Majesty the King of the Djinns has asked your freedom as the price of his aid to us. He desires also to marry you.”

Ghail’s lips moved a little, but she did not look at Tony.

“Majesty,” said the Queen, to him, “we can refuse you nothing. I make the slave girl Ghail free on one condition. If she does not marry you, she becomes again a slave. You would not impose that condition, but we can do no less!”

“But dammit—” began Tony indignantly.

“I—I can have no choice,” said Ghail almost inaudibly. “I—I will marry him.”

But she looked bitterly resigned. Tony bent over to her. She turned her face away. He whispered urgently:

“Damn it! Go through with it! I’ll divorce you before we leave this hall. As I understand it, all that’s necessary is for me to say ‘I divorce you’ three times and the trick’s done!”

She jerked her head about to look at him, her eyes wide. Then she flushed.

“Your hands?” said the Queen briskly. “The cadi is here. He will marry you now. At once. Immediately.”

A venerable figure pushed his way forward. The ceremony began. Ghail was very quiet, but her voice was firm. The formula was strange to Tony, and he did not know when it was finished.

But suddenly it was—and the Queen was laughing delightedly!

“Now, then! Majesty, the people of Barkut have been told only since my return that I am not their real queen! When I was kidnapped by the King of the Djinns he believed me the queen, and Ghail yonder was but a child. I am actually Ghail’s aunt, and it seemed best to pose as the ruler of Barkut lest I be strangled and Ghail herself kidnapped and subjected to the djinn king’s demands. A child might have been frightened into obedience. I—was otherwise.

“And so, while I posed as a captive Queen, Ghail remained among her people in disguise, learning the duties of queenship and also coming to know her people as few rulers do. The Council of Regency took its commands from her. And now that the King of the Djinns is also our friend and moreover a human being, it is right and fitting and proper that she return to her throne. And the kingdom of the djinns and the human kingdom of Barkut is now one nation, and there is now no reason for battle or anything but peace and joy.”

Cannon began to boom outside. There was uproar. The audience hall itself filled with noise. And as Tony stood utterly stupefied, the erstwhile Queen stood up and beckoned to Ghail. And Ghail held Tony’s hand fast and pulled him after her as she mounted to her throne. She pulled him firmly down beside her on it. It was a close fit, though not quite as close as the fit in the camel cabin, and it felt very pleasant.

The noise still continued. Presently Tony, still dazed, whispered into Ghail’s ear:

“But—you didn’t have to do it this way! If you were willing to marry me, why didn’t you just tell me so?”

Ghail smiled composedly down at the cheering people in the throne room. She said fiercely under her breath:

“We’d have been engaged, and it might have been weeks before we got married! And do you think I’d trust you another night in any djinn palace with all those hussies trying to gain your favors since you’re their king? Or do you think I’d trust you with Esir and Esim either?”

Tony said feebly:

“Oh-h-h…” and then he said, “I—I’ll have to send them word I won’t be home tonight.”

Then he cheered up as the celebration began.

It was late. The royal bridal party had graciously attended the djinn wedding of Nasim and Abdul in the palace outside the city walls. They had returned. Cannon still boomed. There were bonfires in the streets, and dancing, and joy was being expressed in all possible fashions, including the indecorous.

But in the royal palace of Barkut the last chamberlain bowed out, the last slave-in-waiting departed, and Tony closed the door firmly. He said:

“Er—Ghail, did I remember to send word to Esir and Esim that I wouldn’t be home tonight?”

“Whether you did or not,” Ghail told him, “I did!”

He took out his cigarette case. He snapped it open. He began to prowl about the bridal chamber, blowing on the wick. A faint but perceptible aroma of lasf became noticeable. Ghail watched him, uncomprehending and embarrassed.

“Why do you do that, Tony?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s a sort of custom in my country,” said Tony awkwardly. “We don’t use lasf, of course. We use something else. It keeps away flies and mosquitoes. But I’m using this to keep away djinns.”

It was again night. Tony Gregg got out of a taxicab on lower East Broadway, in the Syrian quarter of New York, and paid off the driver. He helped a very pretty girl to the sidewalk and led her into a shishkebab restaurant.

The slick-haired proprietor grinned at him as he came to take his order.

“I remember you!” he said. “Mr. Emurian wanted to buy that gold piece you had! He offered you two thousan’ bucks. Ain’t that right?”

“That’s right,” said Tony. “Have you seen him lately?”

“Oh, sure,” said the proprietor. “He comes in most every night… hey! Here he comes now!”

The girl with Tony had listened, frowning in attention to the difficult English words. She looked up sharply as the bald-headed man with the impeccably tailored clothes entered. He spoke pleasantly to the proprietor, glanced at Tony, and then came quickly to his table.

“Good evening!” he said warmly, twinkling through his eyeglasses. “I have hoped to find you again! I cabled my friend in Ispahan, and he is willing to pay you three thousand dollars for your coin!”

Tony reached in his pocket. He put down two gold pieces.

“Here are two of them,” he said. “Send them to your friend as gifts. I had rather hoped to see you again, too.” He slipped into the Arabic he had learned from Ghail. “This is my wife.” To Ghail he explained, “This is Mr. Emurian. You have heard me speak of him.”

“Oh, yes!” said Ghail. She smiled sweetly. “Tony is so grateful to you. And I also.”

“Yes,” said Tony. “I went to Barkut, you see. Met my wife there. In a sense, all due to you. And she wanted to see my world, so we came back here. I’ve a rather interesting business proposition for you. I’d like to have your friend make some contact with us in Barkut and establish a branch of his business there. It would be useful to have a regular commercial contact with this world and with the United States.”

The bald-headed Mr. Emurian sat down slowly, his face a study.

“You say that you went to Barkut?”

“Oh, yes,” said Tony briskly. “Hm… maybe I’d better sketch it out.”

He gave the spectacled man a brief, hasty, and necessarily improbable account of what had happened to him since their last meeting in this same restaurant.

“The djinns,” he concluded, “have some bad qualities, but their main trouble was that they could be anything they wanted, so they never learned how to make anything. I came back to get designs and pictures of all sorts of stuff. Not only statues and fashions and architecture—though I want those—but industrial products, and”—he paused—“the machines that make them. After all, a djinn can turn himself into a drill press as well as a beetle or a whirlwind, once he knows what a drill press is like. As a drill press he can turn out all sorts of stuff—including another drill press. And that manner of working would be congenial to them, too. They’ll like being pieces of machinery and turning out things the humans can’t make and are delighted to buy from them. Barkut ought to become a rather thriving industrial community before long.”