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towards a group of tourists which Mahmet had spotted half a mile away.
    “Hay-yee! Hay-yee!” Mahmet cried, bouncing up and down and wielding the whip.
    At least they were getting out of the sandstorm. The pale haze of the sun could be seen now and then, still a long way above the horizon. Djemal stumbled and fell, tossing Mahmet off. Djemal got a mouthful of sand inadvertently, and would have loved to lie there for several minutes, recovering, but Mahmet flogged him up, shouting.
    Mahmet had lost his transistor, and went scrambling and scuffling about for it in the sand. When he found it, he kicked Djemal hard in the rump to no immediate avail, then kicked him unmercifully in the anus, because Djemal had lain down again.
    Mahmet cursed.
    Djemal did likewise, blowing his breath out and baring his two formidable front teeth before he gradually hauled himself up with a slow, bitter dignity. Stupefied by heat and thirst, Djemal saw Mahmet fuzzily, and was exasperated enough to attack him, except that he was weak from fatigue. Mahmet whacked him and gave him the command to kneel. Djemal knelt, and Mahmet mounted.
    They were moving again. Djemal’s feet became ever heavier, and dragged in the sand. But he could now smell people. Water. Then he heard music—the ordinary wailing music of Arabian transistors, but louder, as if several were playing in unison. Mahmet whacked Djemal again and again on the shoulder, shouting encouragement. Djemal saw no reason to exert himself, since the goal was plainly in sight, but he did his best to walk fast, hoping that this would make Mahmet ease up on the whip.
    “Yeh-yah!” The cheers grew louder.
    Djemal’s mouth was now open and dry. Just before he reached the people, his eyesight failed him. So did his leg muscles. His knees, then his side hit the sand. The hump on his back sagged limp, empty like his mouth and his stomach.
    And Mahmet beat him, yelling.
    The crowd both moaned and yelled. Djemal didn’t care. He felt he was dying. Why didn’t someone bring him water? Mahmet was now lighting matches under Djemal’s heels. Djemal barely twitched. He would have bitten through Mahmet’s neck with pleasure, but he hadn’t the strength. Djemal lost consciousness.
    With fury and resentment, Mahmet saw a camel and its driver walk across the finish line. Then another. The camels looked tired, but they were not playing dead-tired like Djemal. There was no room for pity in Mahmet’s mind. Djemal had failed him. Djemal who was supposed to be so strong.
    When a couple of the camel drivers jeered at Mahmet and made nasty remarks about his not having given his camel water—a fact which was obvious—Mahmet cursed them back. Mahmet threw a bucket of water on to Djemal’s head, and brought him to. Then Mahmet watched, grinding his teeth, as the winner of the race (a fat old swine who had always snubbed Mahmet in Elu-Bana) received his prize in the form of a paper check. Naturally the Government wasn’t going to hand out that money in cash, because it might be stolen in the crowd.
    Djemal drank water that night, and ate a bit also. Mahmet did not give him food, but there were bushes and trees where they spent the night. They were on the edge of the city of Khassa. The next day, having taken on provisions—bread, dates and water and a couple of dry sausages for himself—Mahmet started off with Djemal across the desert again. Djemal was still a little tired and could have rested for a day with profit. Was Mahmet going to stop somewhere for water this time? Djemal hoped so. At least they weren’t racing.
    Near noon, when they had to rest under shade, Djemal’s right front leg gave under him as he was kneeling for Mahmet to dismount. Mahmet tumbled on to the sand, then jumped up and struck Djemal a couple of times on the head with his whip handle.
    “Stupid!” Mahmet shouted in Arabic.
    Djemal bit at the whip and caught it. When Mahmet lunged for the whip, Djemal bit again and got Mahmet’s