He chuckled. “Not that the commander agrees with me—Commander Desquer, you’ll be under him. But he can’t tell me how the Pyramids were built, or the explanation of so many mysteries of Egypt. In my opinion, space travel was understood ages before Europeans achieved it. Yes ...” He nodded thoughtfully. “A puzzle. A nomadic civilization on the Nile, and then, without warning, a civilization full-blown and decadent. Where did it come from? It was decadent when it reached Egypt. I wonder ...” He turned to the controls. “Here’s Azouad. Half an hour. You’ll find plenty of shops. Don’t buy any wines—they won’t keep in Sub-Sahara. Brandy’s good. And pipes wear better than cigarettes in the Legion.” Below the gyro was a patch of gray on the brownish, rolling Sahara plain. Small dots of faded green were visible, trees struggling desperately for moisture and life. In a clearing Captain Brady set down the ship. “All out,” he grunted. “_Parte!_ Half an hour, remember.” * * * * * The brothers watched the lean figure move briskly across the sun-baked square, to disappear into the depths of a cantina. Then they looked at one another. “Well!” Jimmy murmured. “So we’re in the Legion!” “Sub-Sahara. Um. Come on; we’ve only half an hour. Let’s look over Azouad.” Tony hesitated, gripped Phil’s arm, and glanced up. “That a plane?” “Yeah.” Phil squinted aloft. “Wait ... not a government plane. Private. Anyway, so what? There’s no extradition.” “I know,” Tony said softly. “But the Earth Star’s plenty valuable. Somebody might have ... ideas.” “Maybe I’d better mail it back home,” Jimmy grinned. Three glances crossed. And, curiously, at that moment a shadow drifted across the brothers—the shadow of a plane, chilling them momentarily after the blast of the African sun. It was like an omen. Phil said, “I wonder which of us really has it?” “I have,” Tony remarked. “Come along. I want a drink.” He led the way, shouldering through a crowd of assorted riff-raff, the usual scum of a bordertown. Odors of sesame, oils, and less familiar stenches were sickeningly strong. Dozens of mongrels roved hungrily about; the flies were countless. They bought smokes and entered a cantina, dark and muggy. A fat native served them squareface gin, waddling toward the dim corner where they sat. Behind them, Tony noticed, was a door, half opened less to permit fresh air to enter than to allow foul to emerge. He pushed it shut with a casual foot. The gin wasn’t good, but it was strong. Also, it was inordinately expensive. Jimmy made a wry face. “Hell of a lot of good money will do us now. We’ve ten minutes. Think we’ll like Sub-Sahara?” “It sounds—interesting,” Phil said slowly. “Captain Brady’s certainly hipped on his Land of Light. I wonder what sort the Copts are?” “Tough hombres,” Tony grunted. There was a brief silence. The waiter appeared, refilled glasses, and departed. Then— “_Merlin!_” a soft voice whispered.