"They can't carry on much of a war--unless the soldiers commute by
monorail."
"Maybe Prince Ali thinks he's got the answer."
"Sjambaks?"
"I didn't say it," said Trimmer blandly.
Murphy grinned. After a moment he said. "I picked up with a girl named
Soek Panjoebang who plays the _gamelan_. I suppose she's working for
either the Sultan or Prince Ali. Do you know which?"
Trimmer's eyes sparkled. He shook his head. "Might be either one.
There's a way to find out."
"Yeah?"
"Get her off where you're sure there's no spy-cells. Tell her two
things--one for Ali, the other for the Sultan. Whichever one reacts you
know you've got her tagged."
"For instance?"
"Well, for instance she learns that you can rig up a hypnotic ray from a
flashlight battery, a piece of bamboo, and a few lengths of wire.
That'll get Ali in an awful sweat. He can't get weapons. None at all.
And for the Sultan," Trimmer was warming up to his intrigue, chewing on
his cigar with gusto, "tell her you're on to a catalyst that turns clay
into aluminum and oxygen in the presence of sunlight. The Sultan would
sell his right leg for something like that. He tries hard for Singhalût
and Cirgamesç."
"And Ali?"
Trimmer hesitated. "I never said what I'm gonna say. Don't forget--I
never said it."
"Okay, you never said it."
"Ever hear of a _jehad_?"
"Mohammedan holy wars."
"Believe it or not, Ali wants a _jehad_."
"Sounds kinda fantastic."
"Sure it's fantastic. Don't forget, I never said anything about it. But
suppose someone--strictly unofficial, of course--let the idea percolate
around the Peace Office back home."
"Ah," said Murphy. "That's why you came to see me."
* * * * *
Trimmer turned a look of injured innocence. "Now, Murphy, you're a
little unfair. I'm a friendly guy. Of course I don't like to see the
bank lose what we've got tied up in the Sultan."
"Why don't you send in a report yourself?"
"I have! But when they hear the same thing from you, a _Know Your
Universe!_ man, they might make a move."
Murphy nodded.
"Well, we understand each other," said Trimmer heartily, "and
everything's clear."
"Not entirely. How's Ali going to launch a _jehad_ when he doesn't have
any weapons, no warships, no supplies?"
"Now," said Trimmer, "we're getting into the realm of supposition." He
paused, looked behind him. A farmer pushing a rotary tiller, bowed
politely, trundled ahead. Behind was a young man in a black turban, gold
earrings, a black and red vest, white pantaloons, black curl-toed
slippers. He bowed, started past. Trimmer held up his hand. "Don't waste
your time up there; we're going back in a few minutes."
"Thank you, Tuan."
"Who are you reporting to? The Sultan or Prince Ali?"
"The Tuan is sure to pierce the veil of my evasions. I shall not
dissemble. I am the Sultan's man."
Trimmer nodded. "Now, if you'll kindly remove to about a hundred yards,
where your whisper pick-up won't work."
"By your leave, I go." He retreated without haste.
"He's almost certainly working for Ali," said Trimmer.
"Not a very subtle lie."
"Oh, yes--third level. He figured I'd take it second level."
"How's that again?"
"Naturally I wouldn't believe him. He knew I knew that he knew it. So
when he said 'Sultan', I'd think he wouldn't lie simply, but that he'd
lie double--that he actually was working for the Sultan."