Dahran

The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor

This is the ninth chapter [ex twenty two] of a novel about gay sex and present-day slavery.

Keywords: authority, control, gay, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, sex, submission

This novel, The Dahran Sands, is the eighth novel in the Dahran series

If you are underage to read this kind of material or if it is unlawful for you to read such material where you live, please leave this webpage now.

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The Prison Doctor and The Changed Life [the first novel of this series] are now available as full novels in Acrobat Acrobat format on http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/

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Chapter 9 -- The deciding times

If you do not agree with the phases of the moon, get a ladder and repair it.

(Hausa proverb)

It was the day following the first `uniformed' dinner that my Head of Stables at the Aloe Palace, Yuriy Obov, came to me with a problem of insubordination with one of his own slaves, a Chechen.

Yuriy was standing `at rest' on the veranda beside a table where I was doing some work in the cool of the late afternoon, having moved some papers out of an overly warm and stuffy study.

I nodded to Yuriy, noticing that he had left a slave standing `at display' some twenty or so paces away in the courtyard.

Boss, I have a problem and want your advice. This slave out in the courtyard is now continually giving trouble. It has just come to a head when I was assigning him work this afternoon and before other slaves he called me a bossy Russian'.

`You can't handle a single slave?'

Of course, I can, Boss, but there is a principle involved here. In challenging me, he is challenging you. For some reason over the past while he sees me as the sole problem of his life. It has become personal with him. Of course, I can have him flogged and flogged again, or put on a water-wheel for a month, but if I do that it's a him and me' or for me a `me and him' situation. In fact, it is not. I could not care less, if he were assigned to my Stables or to one of the other Stables. I think the result would be the same in a couple of weeks; he would have the same confrontational problem with a new Head of Stables.'

`Have you not tried fucking him, as you do your workers?'

`I have, Boss, but what difference does that make if the slave submits physically, but his mind is filled with resentment? In fact, I think that is also being held against me.'

I rang the bell on the table and in a trice, Ben Trant, my secretary was out.

Ben, get me the file on...' and I pointed to the slave at display' in the courtyard.

Ben looked at the slave and then at Yuriy who gave the slave's name.

`Immediately, Master.'

`And tell Bob to bring out a pitcher of his lime-juice and two glasses.'

`Immediately, Master.'

`Yuriy, pull up a seat.'

Yuriy looked at me as only guests and the free men on the medical staff sit in my presence, and not the slaves, even those who are Heads of function.

I waited until Yuriy had done so.

`Now, put your feet up on the table.'

`Boss?' he said surprised.

`Do as I am doing now,' and I pushed back my chair a little and put my feet up on the table.

Yuriy carefully did likewise. He is one of the few Supervisors who do not wear the slip-on sandals which the other Overseers wear. His brown feet showed the calluses on his soles and heels.

I let a minute pass, and just as I was about to say something, Bob Conrad, my head of serving staff, came out with the requested lime-juice. His step faltered a little as he saw both of us with our feet on the table, myself facing west into the dying sun, but with my shoulder at an angle to the courtyard. Yuriy was facing into the courtyard.

`Comfortable, Yuriy?' Bob asked with a certain nuance of sarcasm. Trying to get Bob not to speak is an art form in itself.

`Very comfortable, Bob,' Yuriy replied with a grin.

`Bob, pour us out two glasses,' I said.

As Bob did this, I was half-smiling at Yuriy who in turn was half-smiling at Bob as he was putting two small silver toasters on the table with a glass of the lime-juice on each.

Bob, go and tell that slave in the courtyard to kneel at display',' I ordered.

`Yes, Boss,' and he skipped down the steps of the veranda and in the direction of the slave who was out of my line of direct sight.

Bob was back in a second, `Done, Boss.'

I picked up the glass of lime-juice and raised it to Yuriy, who reciprocated with his.

`How is that slave doing in the courtyard, Yuriy?'

From my angle I could not see the slave without turning.

`Now sweating like mad.'

`Very good, not all with the warmth of the afternoon, I would presume.'

I took the pitcher of lime-juice from Bob and re-filled Yuriy's half-empty glass. The slave in the courtyard would be able to see my every action.

`As you well know, Yuriy, and as Bob here can also tell you, authority is not just the power to command, it is the display of that power through mind and body.'

Yuriy nodded his understanding.

`You are also right not to have punished this slave directly. That would have made it a personal matter instead of the Master's use of authority. The slave in the courtyard will now know clearly that you are not acting of your own accord, that you are acting of mine. That slave will also see how much I hold you in high esteem. Wouldn't you agree, Bob?'

`Indeed, Boss, as long as that high esteem does not go straight to Yuriy's head, his feet on your table and everything.'

Yuriy just grinned at Bob's comments as indeed did I and he added `Uh, uh, Boss, that slave has just fainted.'

I looked over my shoulder and sure enough, the slave had crumpled to the ground. It certainly was not the heat of the day. Such is the power of suggestion.

`Now, Bob, two small orders. Go into the kitchens and get a jug of cold water and pour it over that slave's head. Secondly, when he is awake again, tell him that you heard Yuriy and me just talking about which slave centre to sell him through after he has been castrated.'

Bob's eyes widened, but he went off as instructed. Yuriy and I sipped our lime-juice and waited on results.

Bob came back out of the kitchens and went down the veranda steps behind me. This was followed by the sound of water hitting the courtyard ground. I did not hear what was said, but there was a shout, followed by the patter of feet over the ground and up the steps of the veranda.

A wet shape threw itself on the ground beside my chair.

Master, master,' it wheezed in a low voice, please don't sell me. Please don't cut off my balls. Please! Please!'

The slave was on all fours beside my chair, his hands half-covering his head.

I am not going to send you for sale or castrate you. Yuriy, my Head of Stables at the Aloe Palace is. Your file, here,' which Ben had brought out in the interim, shows you are cheeky, impudent and that you don't work very hard. Why should I waste money feeding you good slave biscuits?'

`Master, I will do better. I will. I promise. You are the best Master in all of Dahra. Everyone says so. I didn't think Overseer Yuriy would go to you. I didn't think.'

Looking over at Ben Trant who was standing waiting for further instructions, I beckoned him over with a finger.

`Get me a three foot camel cane.'

`Yes, Master,' and off he sped.

`Now tell me, Yuriy, while we wait. How are my slaves at the Aloe Palace? Obedient, submissive, good fucks in bed?'

All of that, Boss, and more. They know they have a good life here working for you. You don't brand your slaves,' and lowering his feet off the table, he jabbed a foot into the side of the slave on the floor. Does he slave?'

The slave stayed muted, but was shaking his head in his hands.

You don't starve your slaves,' again another jab of the foot into the slave's side. Does he slave?'

You give your slaves language education and medical care, to say nothing of services the best dentist in all of Dahra,' another jab at the slave, Doesn't he slave?'.

`Boss, do you know that this very slave had an ingrown toe-nail removed and a cyst on his back removed? And still he is not happy? Are you not, slave?'

When Yuriy had stopped talking, the slave whispered, `Master, I am stupid. I am sorry. You have had me taught good English and Arabic. In two years as your slave, you have never punished me. Not even once. You are a good Master. I am sorry.'

`And what about Yuriy?'

`Yuriy is the best Supervisor, Master.'

When Yuriy heard this, he burst out laughing.

`Boss, this slave can lie better than a quayside whore. The best Supervisor! I ask you! You can believe nothing that this slave says.'

At that moment, Ben Trant arrived at a run with a three foot camel-cane.

`Before I let Yuriy, your Overseer decide on your castration and where you are to be sold, he is going to flog you on the steps of the veranda. But you can decide on the number of strokes to pay for your impudence, your disobedience and your lies.'

The slave was shivering at my feet though the afternoon was nicely warm.

`Master, what I have said just now about you and Overseer Yuriy is true. Every word of it.'

And calling him before other slaves, a bossy Russian' is that the truth or a lie?'

`That is a lie, Master. He is not Russian but a Kazakh.'

`So, he is a bossy Kazakh!'

The slave had walked himself into his own trap. Bob and even Ben Trant were grinning.

`Yes, Master, he is a little bossy as a good Supervisor and Overseer must be. But that is not a bad thing.'

`So how many strokes are to you to receive to pay for your impudence?'

The slave surprised me by immediately retorting `two hundred strokes, Master.'

I saw the smiles disappear from the faces of Ben and Bob. Even Yuriy became serious. Two hundred strokes even with a three foot camel-cane in the hands of the most inexperienced flogger would cause serious damage to a slave's body. However, in the hands of a sturdy Overseer like Yuriy Obov, who would have had his share of experience in delivering a lesser number of strokes than that to individual slaves in the past, two hundred strokes would cause the most severe of traumas.

`Two hundred strokes, if they don't kill you, will put you in the hospital.'

`Yes, Master, but after I'm healed, I will still be your slave, your most obedient slave, and maybe you, Master, and Overseer Yuriy will no longer be angry with me.'

Yuriy is not angry with you. I am not even angry with you. I am disappointed. Well then, this is my judgement. Your Overseer, Yuriy Obov will give you two hundred strokes of a three foot cane before the assembled slaves of the Aloe Palace. This will be done in the evening before the evening meal...' I paused and let my words sink in ....at the rate of five strokes per day over forty days. Those forty days you will spend on a water-wheel and each evening you will come yourself to the courtyard of the Aloe Palace, be punished, and then you will go back to the water-wheel for the night.'

The slave shuffled over on his hands and knees to my feet and put my right foot on the back of neck.

`Thank you, Master. Thank you!'

`You are getting another chance. I am not going to have you castrated and I am not going to sell you for the few coins you would get on the market. What I do want is to see a very different attitude at the end of forty days. It will be long enough for you to really make up your mind as to how you are going to serve me and Overseer Yuriy.'

I looked over at Yuriy, and he was breathing out through pursed and rounded lips. I think he really thought that he was going to have to flog the slave at one go and practically kill him in the effort.

I pushed the slave away with my foot.

`Get back to your duties and be present in the courtyard of the Aloe Palace this evening for your first punishment. You were given a gold necklace as a sign of my love and approval.'

`Yes, Master.'

`Get it and give it to your Supervisor. You will have to earn it again.'

`Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.'

When the slave was gone, I again raised my glass to Yuriy.

`To the best Kazakh Supervisor according to the best and most obedient of slaves.'

Boss,' Yuriy said as he reciprocated the toast, don't believe everything you hear out of the mouth of slaves, especially those on their way to being punished.'

I handed Ben Trant back the file on the slave and he disappeared.

Bob Conrad was still standing there, silent and pensive.

`Something the matter, Bob?'

`No, Boss, quite the contrary. I just realised how much I love you for being merciful to silly slaves like that one,' and he came forward and raised the back of my hand to his lips and kissed it as he knelt down beside my chair.

I stroked the back of his neck and the short stubble of his stylish crew-cut with my fingers as he looked at me.

`Bob, life is strange, but I think it is I who love slaves like you and Yuriy for the character and backbone you have in being obedient to me and my wishes. I know tonight I have Dmitri down to be my bed companion, but perhaps after I have exercised my droit de seigneur, you might be around.'

Bob smiled knowingly. Having taken Dmitri, it would be unlikely that I would want to take him, and he hates being taken, but he loves being warm in bed with me.

`Boss, if I am to keep you warm, can Ivan come along with me and we'll make you ham in the middle.'

I nodded and gave his head another rub.

As we were speaking Stan Mercer, my Head of Property came in.

`Boss, there is a driver outside looking for help. Something about a broken-down truck and some property he is transporting to al-Qatim. He is asking for the Master of the house.'

I went out to see what the problem was, both Bob and Stan hovering in the background.

The driver was dressed in Arab clothing, in a none too clean dishdash with two oil strains on his sleeves and was waiting patiently in the courtyard. He looked harried, harassed and hard-pressed, and approached me full of apologies for inconveniencing me.

`Sir, my Master's truck has broken down and I have tried to get assistance on the truck's shortwave, but it not is working either.'

`How can I help and who is your Master?'

He named his Master whose name sounded familiar.

`Related to the Minister for Industry?'

`Yes, Sir, he is my Master's first cousin.'

`And how can I help?'

`I am bringing fifteen slaves to the al-Qatim market and I have been on the road since midday, but the truck keeps slipping out of gear. It finally stopped just outside the gates of your Palace. I need somewhere secure to leave the slaves for tonight while I get a tow-truck. I am sure my Master will compensate you for any service you give.'

`One of my Overseers is a mechanic. First, let us see if he can help you,' and I turned to Bob.

`Find Komil and tell him to come here. Fill him in. I think you have overheard everything.'

Turning to the driver, I asked, `Are your Master's slaves troublesome?'

`Oh no, sir. They are farm slaves and looked after my Master's animals, his goats and cattle. He has sold that farm and is now selling the slaves.'

I turned to Stan and said, `send down a Supervisor and three slaves and have the driver's cargo brought up.'

`Will they be hungry?' I asked of the driver.

`They ate this morning, sir. They won't need to eat again until tomorrow when I get them to al-Qatim.'

`It will be no trouble. My slaves eat shortly and they can be given something to eat and to drink.'

Profuse thanks were to be heard and I nodded to Stan to get on with his orders.

David Tuttle and Gustav were the only guests expected to dine that evening, apart from the medics, so I started to go in to change for dinner, when those who had attended the barbers came trotting into the courtyard, some sixteen in all, and stood `at display' ready for inspection.

The truck driver who was still in the courtyard stood there as transfixed and asked, `Sir, are they your bodyguards?'

`No, not at all, merely those of my slaves who have been given a haircut today.'

I think he thought I was joking.

One of the joys of inspecting these slaves, and they were merely slaves, and did not include any Supervisor as the two barbers had by now worked their way well down the list of slaves, is that it has become a little ceremony. I check each of the slaves to ensure that they have been properly prepped and depilated, that their balls are as smooth as silk without a single disturbing hair, that their pubes are perfectly trimmed.

They for their part delight in showing off the trim of their bodies which have been not only well-worked but well-exercised each day. Unlike the morning inspections, when the slaves are silent as each Supervisor or Overseer inspects their care, because these are in the main farm slaves whom I never usually see close up, each slave identifies himself with a little phrase such as Master, I am so and so of the Aloe Palace' or of the Lime Palace, and ready to be inspected.'

They have made the effort to be buffed up and perfectly presented. I, for my part, make the effort to touch and probe, to comment and to praise. It takes less than a minute per slave, but I feel that in the long term it makes for a better and more hard-working slave.

I was just finishing with the last slave, when there was a clinking of chains and the group of slaves whom mine had gone to collect from the truck came round the corner of the Palace and into the courtyard.

Every head turned to look at the newcomers and a deadly silence descended on the courtyard killing the low hum of conversation that always carpets the courtyard at meal times. Each slave was filthy. Not just dirty, but filthy, and each had a light chain fixed to each ankle and which clinked as it was drawn over the stones of the courtyard. The new arrivals, with scraggly beards and matted hair, looked thin and emaciated, and it was patent there was no way to tell with any certainty where the brown of their bodies started and the encrusted dirt on them ended. They were brown as if they had worked in the sun, and only two had a scrap of a loincloth, otherwise all were naked.

My Supervisor who had gone to collect them was Stan's assistant, Wik. I beckoned him and the truck driver across and said to Wik, `Get these slaves washed and showered while Komil is checking the truck and then see that Jess takes the truck driver down to the Police Centre to report the breakdown and have his Master informed.'

`Yes, Boss, immediately.'

`Sir, thank you for your hospitality,' the driver said.

`I shall have my slaves look after your Master's slaves. When you come back from the Police Centre, will you join my Supervisors for something to eat?'

The driver was profuse in his thanks and Wik led him off.

I turned to the sixteen slaves who had been at the barbers and who still stood at display' and said, Let each one of you take one of these slaves' and I nodded to the group who were standing silently to one side of the courtyard `and see that he is shit, showered and washed properly. Then bring them back here for something to eat. Do you understand?'

The was a collective `Yes, Master'. Bob was still at my side, like the limpet he tends to be.

`Tell Flavio that we have another sixteen for slave biscuits and soup.'

In the evenings, apart from two of the large slave biscuits as a nutritious main course and any amount of water they wish to drink, my slaves also enjoy for starters a vegetable soup of what the gardens are producing that particular week, soupe a potager as they would call it elsewhere.

After my own and my guests' dinner that evening, where the conversation like that of any isolated Palace tends to be what has happened that day and, in this instance, related to the broken-down truck, David Tuttle and I went out to see how the slaves in transit to al-Qatim were getting on before going for a proposed walk through the gardens.

The slaves' dinner-time had ended and I thought that more of my own slaves than ordinarily had stayed in the courtyard, rather than dispersing as they usually do with their own time before bedtime.

The slaves in transit were to one side and as David and I approached they stood up. I thought they looked that much better after having, at least, been showered and washed. They seemed at a loss, not just for words, but disoriented, their chains making clicking noises as one or more of them moved at any point.

Denko, one of the Slovak twins, had been on service duty as we call it, bringing out the food and dishes, said, `Master' as I drew near.

`Did they eat well, Denko?'

He smiled at my knowing his name.

`Yes, Master, indeed. They were starving. I think all had two bowls of soup and at least two slave biscuits each.'

`What are they?'

`They are all Arabs, Master, from the Peninsula as far as I can make out, Yemeni, Omani, Mehri, all from different places and tribes. I am not sure, but I think some of them may have been enslaved for having no work or getting into trouble.'

`Where are they being put for the night?'

`I heard Wik saying that he was going to prepare some pallets and blankets in the far outbuilding, Master.'

As we were speaking, Komil came over to me and David saying, `Boss, have you a moment?'

I nodded and indicated the direction of the gardens where we were going to walk.

`There is sand in the gearbox of that truck and the front axle has a crack in it. It's a wonder it moved at all. Apart from changing the gearbox in a proper garage and fixing the axle, the driver will have to get a new truck and have that one towed away.'

`You haven't eaten yet?'

`No, Boss, if I may I'll get a couple of biscuits in the kitchen from Flavio.'

I indicated approval and went for my walk with David with whom I wanted to discuss the various building programmes in progress.

The following morning early just after breakfast, a car pulled up in the courtyard driven by a well-dressed Dahran who identified himself as one of the farm managers of the owner of the slaves in transit. He was all apologies for any inconvenience caused and appeared to be very annoyed with the driver for taking out a faulty truck in the first place.

For some reason, that protest seemed hollow, but I let the apologies go by saying that it was the thing to do in the circumstances. I enquired if it were true that his Master was selling the slaves and he confirmed that yes, he was. Did his Master have a price in mind for the slaves? Just whatever the market offered in al-Qatim was the reply.

`Per slave, what was that?' I asked.

`My Master would be happy with fifteen thousand euro per slave.'

`They did not look very healthy and rather underfed, when I saw them last night. Also I noticed that they were in chains, the way troublemakers are,' I commented.

`That, Sir, was because they were being transported, I can assure you.'

`Ask your Master what he would accept for the lot. I have a farm next to this Palace where irrigation ditches have to be dug. Most likely by the look of those slaves they would be dead before all the pipes are laid. But if your Master will accept ninety thousand euro for the lot, he will save the high commissions of the slave centre at al-Qatim.'

`My Master, Sir, would not be able to accept ninety thousand for seventeen hardworking slaves.'

I realised that he was counting the truck-driver among the slaves. I had not thought of the truck-driver as a slave such was his command of the situation the previous evening.

`Ninety five, then.'

`Sir, for a hundred and twenty thousand, I would recommend the sale to my Master.'

`One hundred, no more'.

`A hundred and ten, sir.'

`Let us agree on a hundred and five thousand which you can recommend to your Master.'

The manager looked at me and said, `Sir Jonathan, I will recommend this sale to my Master,' and with that and a final word he departed. It dawned on me that local slaves really did fetch a lot less than foreign ones. A case of the foreign grass on the other side of the fence being exotically greener perhaps.

The following morning he was back with seventeen tan folders - the dossiers of the slaves - and I had Gianni draw a cheque for the one hundred and five thousand euro. With that I acquired ownership of sixteen farm slaves and a truck driver.

When the manager had departed, I called the three Heads of Stables, Dumi, Yuriy and Komil. There were big smiles as they realised they were getting extra slaves for their kofilas.

`Is it true, Boss, that you got them for just six thousand a head?' Yuriy asked.

`About that. Are there no secrets in this Palace? But remember that they are half-starved by the look of them, and Bob tells me that they all had a further two full slave biscuits this morning.'

Now, a full slave biscuit is usually quite enough for one meal, though two are offered in the evening meal. Only Dieter and a few of the other heavily built slaves or Supervisors like Komil can regularly manage to take two at all times.

`Don't worry, Boss. We'll make sure that they work for their food.'

`Where are they now?' I asked.

`Wik brought them back to the far outbuilding, Boss,' Dumi said.

`Get them.'

When the new farm slaves in my ownership assembled, they stood in a huddle mass, with the truck-driver in his dirty dishdasha beside them. The slaves were now all naked, the couple who had dirty loincloths the previous day had lost them.

I looked at my three Overseers and asked, `Do you think they need to go through the compounds?

There was a general shaking of heads.

Maybe the driver, but we can wait and see, Boss,' Yuriy said, they all look as if the fight has been knocked out of them.'

It wasn't a bad overall assessment.

I stepped forward and spoke to them in mass, in slow Arabic.

`You are now my slaves. I have bought you all from your Master to work on my farms here.'

The driver looked shocked as Dumi walked over to him and ordered to strip off the dishdasha. The slave body was heavily covered in hair. The other slaves beside him were looking confused.

`You will be brought to see the doctor to make sure you are all healthy and then to the dentist and to the eye doctor. Work hard for me and you will be treated well. At the end of thirty days, I shall see who merits a gold necklace,' and I hooked a finger under that of Komil who was nearest to me.

I turned to Dumi who had the filthy dishdasha in his outstretched hand held by two fingers, `Make sure they are all given a visit to the barbers and prepared in the style of my Palace, Dumi.'

`Yes, Boss, you can count on that.'

As I turned away to go back into the Palace, the most extraordinary thing occurred. There was a high-pitched trilling sound coming from one of the slaves, and then they were all joining in what was almost like a war cry of exuberance. I looked at them, thin arms up in the air, fists clenched, and this trilling, warbling sound bouncing off the walls of the Palaces and the outbuilding filling the courtyard with a composite shout of joy. I had heard this sound made by rapidly vibrating the tongue in Egypt a long time ago, but never in Dahra. It was a definite first.

`First time, I ever heard any slaves singing approval about working on a farm, Boss,' was Yuriy's confirming laconic comment.

`No, Boss, it was the gold necklace bit, for sure,' Komil said with a grin.

Judge Khalila bint Omar's resume as prepared by Karim al-Kibbe arrived at the Bank that week with a note to the effect that her Honour would telephone me unless I wanted Karim to act as go-between, in which case merely to let him know. I did not and told him to have the lady judge call me at her convenience.

Her resume was interesting: daughter of a former Government minister, educated in Law at universities in both France and Kuwait, a member of the Paris Bar Council, married a lawyer many years her senior, specialised in property law when back in Dahra -- that I knew on the grapevine --, and after she had been widowed, she had been made a judge nine years previously; no known hobbies or causes, other than publicly supporting a local girls' primary school; was known to have a fine collection of Arabic calligraphy and medieval parchments, and now lived at her late father's Palace five miles outside the capital city. Cynically, I said to myself that with a curriculum vitae like that she could stand for public election anywhere.

A week after receiving Karim's correspondence, I thought it best to send her Honour a note by hand inviting her to visit the Lemon Palace and stay any weekend she so wished.

Twenty four hours later she phoned and we agreed the weekend of her choice. I thought it best to say outright that my Palace was an all-male one and that if she had any special requirements, just to let me know as I was not familiar with what protection might have to accompany a judge of the Sheikdom.

Sir Jonathan, this is Dahra,' she replied with a small laugh. I have no bodyguards or security and I normally drive myself to work. However, your offer suggests that I can be collected and that would suit me perfectly. I love flowers and gardens since my time abroad and I merely wish to see the gardens of which I have read.'

We agreed the time and place of her collection and I wondered what was I letting myself in for.

I let Pete Downings, my Head of Household, know of the impending visit and he said he would consult with Aziz al-Aziz who was most knowledgeable on Dahran etiquette, the protocols, the quirks and foibles of entertaining at Palaces.

Her Honour Khalila bint Omar to my mind was one of the most fear-inspiring Dahrans whom I had met during my time in the Sheikdom. Courtesy, diplomacy, hospitality and perhaps even a little flattery would be the order of the day. In some aspects, her visit would be a metaphorical kissing of hands.

One of the advantages of the internet is that you can source literally anything on it. It took me only fifteen minutes when I had spare time at the Bank to find the item I was looking for which I converted in my mind from dollars, and found it to cost a hundred and fifty thousand euro. The item I found was in New York. The firm was delighted to air freight it to Dahra at another six thousand and I could expect delivery in a week.

A second call to a shop in London made me laugh because the three things, which I thought would cost me quite a lot, totalled less than two hundred euro including the shop's full catalogue and the cost of the air mail to Dahra.

Looking at the report for whom my purchase was intended, I thought that this better be an accurate report.

End of Chapter 9

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