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Updated: May 14, 2025
If you tell me the one in the pyramid was indeed the original, I will be very disappointed. Such a model would not be suitable." "It wasn't," Rick said briefly. "Ah. And where is the original?" Rick's smile was every bit as warm and friendly as Kemel Moustafa's. "Perhaps the answer to that had better wait until we have talked to Bartouki." The Egyptian's smile broadened.
Even Rick, with his rapidly growing background of scientific knowledge, could understand only fragments of conversation. "Let them talk over their coffee," Bartouki said. "They are enjoying it. We will retire to my den and I will show you examples from El Mouski." The samples were everything Bartouki had promised.
"I wish you'd tell my English teacher that." Barby sighed. "I think my way of spelling is just as good as hers." Bartouki and the boys laughed sympathetically. The little merchant said, "Whatever the spelling, El Mouski will fascinate you. Many things are made there especially for tourists. Some of the workmanship is excellent, and the prices are very low."
Go ahead, please." Rick raised his voice instinctively. After all, New York was a long distance away! Then he realized that electronic facilities reduce the need for shouting, and lowered it again. "Mr. Bartouki? This is Rick Brant." "Good morning, Rick. Ah, but this is evening in Cairo, is it not?" Rick was sure he identified the little merchant's voice, but he went ahead anyway. "Mr.
There are brass goods of all kinds, and copperware with a partial tin coating called washed tin." The conversation paused long enough for a few bites of lunch, then Bartouki resumed. "We try to take good care of tourists in the United Arab Republic, both in Egypt and in Syria. For example, we license our guide-interpreters, who are called dragomen.
Mohammed Bartouki had assured the scientist that he would look forward to meeting the young people of Dr. Hartson Brant's household. The door was opened by a figure right out of The Arabian Nights, or so it seemed to the young people. The doorman was a huge Negro dressed in flowing red trousers that tucked in at the ankles. His sandals turned up in points at the front, Persian style.
I agree he's a very picturesque type. I suspect Bartouki dressed him up for effect. It's a common practice." "What's Bartouki a doctor of?" Rick asked. "I don't know. Law or something similar, I imagine. He's not a scientist or medical doctor." Mohammed Bartouki himself came to meet them. He was a round little man, scarcely taller than Barby, with twinkling eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses.
Next week I hope to send it with full instructions, hoping to get production started in time for the big tourist season. I wish it could go sooner. It is needed." Barby said impulsively, "Rick leaves the day after tomorrow. He could take it for you. Couldn't you, Rick?" There was no reason to refuse. It was certainly a worthy project, and Bartouki had been generous in answering their questions.
For a moment Rick felt a current of tension run through the store, but he dismissed it as imagination. He walked toward the rear counter, trying to identify Ali Moustafa, but none of the clerks fitted the description Bartouki had given. He addressed his question to the clerk behind the rearmost counter. "Is Mr. Moustafa here?" The clerk's dark eyes flickered, and his face became expressionless.
Rick looked at him. "What are you driving at?" "What data are buried in your subconscious that make you distrust Bartouki?" "I didn't say I mistrusted him." Scotty shrugged. "No, but you must, if you don't think it's right to call him." Rick had to admit Scotty was probably right. What basis did he have for mistrusting the charming little Egyptian merchant?
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