Hassan drove out of the hotel alley into a chaos of horns, pedestrians who flirted with sudden death, wildly maneuvering cars, and donkey carts that always seemed on the verge of being hit by an accelerating truck. It was a normal day in Cairo traffic.

The boys watched with mixed fear and amazement—fear that Hassan would hit someone and amazement that he didn't. Time after time he bore down on a slow-moving Egyptian and Rick's heart leaped into his throat until collision was averted by some miracle or other, usually a wild, record-breaking leap by the pedestrian.

The trip from the airport had been along streets that formed a kind of throughway, but in the city itself, the traffic was the kind that would send an American traffic cop screaming for the riot squad. Here, no one seemed to think anything of it.

The boys relaxed a little as it became clear that Hassan knew what he was doing. His driving was perhaps a shade more careful than that of most drivers. Once, as he sped down a crowded, narrow street at forty miles an hour, horns blasted behind them.

Rick turned, but could see nothing wrong. He asked, "Why all the honking, Hassan?"

"They want we go faster," the dragoman said.

Scotty laughed. "Might as well relax. This is the slow, sleepy pace of the Middle East we used to read about."

Rick laughed with him. He had seen hectic traffic before, but nothing to compare with Cairo. This wasn't traffic. It was some kind of wild contest with no rules and only survival as the winner's prize. "Any number can play," he muttered.

He tried to pay attention to signs, but they were in Arabic script. He saw that modern Cairo was giving way to the older city. The buildings were smaller, more closely spaced. Most were of wood, but a few were obviously of ancient stone. In this part of the city, merchants displayed their wares on the sidewalks in front of cubicle-sized stores.

Then, with a suddenness that threw them forward, Hassan pulled into a parking place, jammed on the brakes, and killed the motor. "We walk now," he told them. "Street too small for car."

Rick could see only narrow alleys. If they were the streets Hassan meant, walking was the only possible means of transportation.

In the square where Hassan had halted were dozens of merchants, some with their wares in carts, others carrying them on their backs. A rug merchant approached and Hassan waved him off. "Come. El Mouski over there." He pointed to a narrow alleyway.

The boys followed, eyes taking in the sights, smells, and noises. Merchants hawked their wares with raucous cries, charcoal braziers smoked under assorted foodstuffs, and the air was redolent with the odors of food, people, and the accumulated living of many centuries.

In the alley were shops, closely packed, some little more than a doorway wide and others of quite respectable size. A few even had glass windows with displays. There were textiles, foodstuffs, tinned copper, brass, leather goods, inlaid work, rugs, shoes of strange designs, clothing, and a variety of antiques.

Hassan stopped before a cubicle crowded with interesting brassware and spoke in Arabic to a dark man with tiny spectacles. Rick thought he heard the name of Ali Moustafa. He waited while the merchant replied at length, with much waving of the hands as he outlined the path to the establishment.

"I know now," Hassan informed them. "We go."

Rick and Scotty fell in step with the guide. In many places the alleys were under roofs or wooden awnings. In other places the buildings were so close together that the three walked in single file. Rick could see that daylight seldom reached the bottom of El Mouski. He moved aside to make room for a donkey which carried huge jars.

Merchants beckoned to the boys, promising low prices and goods of superb quality, but Hassan waved them off. Occasionally a beggar approached, but the boys were surprised by the small number of mendicants.

The path passed from alley to alley, past dozens of shops. Rick saw a few tourists, but the tourist season was still weeks ahead and most of the people were Egyptian.

A little Egyptian boy with a dirty face called, "Yonkees! 'Ello!" The boys returned his cheerful grin.

"This is a good-natured crowd," Rick commented. Many of the dark, Semitic faces greeted them with cordial smiles and a half-salute of welcome.

"Friendly people," Scotty agreed. "How far, Hassan?"

"Two streets. Soon."

The dragoman turned a corner, led them straight ahead for a few hundred steps, then turned a second corner. He pointed. Diagonally across the alley was a large store with display windows. A sign over the door carried the name ALI MOUSTAFA surrounded by Arabic script.

"We'll get rid of the cat, then do some shopping," Rick said. "I'm anxious for a closer look at some of these shops. How about you?"

"Ali Moustafa's seems pretty good to me," Scotty replied. "Look at that stuff." He pointed to leather goods displayed in one window. "It's beautiful. Go on in and deliver kitty while I see what some of these things are."

"I tell you," Hassan offered. "Then I help bargain so prices be low. No bargain, prices too high."

Rick walked in through the open door, his eyes taking in the amazing collection of stuff sold by Ali Moustafa. The store was a big one, especially compared with most in the bazaar, and there were several clerks. The walls were lined with shelves that held copperware, brassware, silver, and inlaid boxes. He saw rolls of tapestries, collections of brass camels and donkeys, and glassed-in cases of jewelry. Crowding the floor space were huge vases of brass or pottery, camel saddles, metal trays on low stands, and huge leather hassocks.

The clerks eyed him with interest, then all eyes focused on the package under his arm. 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. "Please to be seated. I will get him."

The clerk vanished through a curtained door at the rear of the store, and Rick turned. He was sensitive to impressions, and he was again conscious of the tension. As he turned he saw that all the clerks were watching him, their faces impassive. His eyes went to the front of the store. Scotty was with Hassan in the doorway, discussing some object in the display window.

A voice spoke from behind him. "You wish to see me?"

Rick turned. The newcomer was a tall, well-built Egyptian with glossy black hair and a military mustache. Unblinking black eyes met his gaze, and there was no hint of welcome in them.

"Are you Ali Moustafa?" Rick asked.

The man bowed a quarter of an inch. "At your service," he said.

Rick didn't know what to say. Bartouki had described a huge, jolly fat man, like Santa Claus without a beard. This man was big, but not huge, not fat, and definitely not jolly.

For a moment Rick hesitated, then asked, "Is there another Ali Moustafa in the bazaar?"

The black eyes locked with his. "There is no other. I am the only Ali Moustafa. And you? If you are Mr. Brant from America, I have been expecting you. Bartouki said you would deliver a package. Is it the one under your arm perhaps?"

Rick didn't like this at all. Even if the description had been exaggerated in some respects, this cold conversation was scarcely a cordial welcome. Yet, the man knew about the cat, and about Bartouki. Something was wrong. He wanted to deliver the cat as he had promised, but he had no intention of turning it over to the wrong man.

"I have a package," he returned evenly. "I'm sorry it can't be delivered now. The man who receives it will have to identify himself without question as the proper Ali Moustafa."

The man shrugged. "You came to my shop. The sign tells you who I am. There is no other Ali Moustafa. So, I will accept delivery of the cat, if you please."

Rick shook his head. "Sorry."

The man spoke in Arabic and took a step forward. Sensing movement behind him, Rick whirled.

The clerks were moving to block his way!

Rick reacted with lightning speed. He yelled, "Scotty!"

Scotty sensed the urgency of the call and jumped into the doorway.

Rick lifted the Egyptian cat and rifled a pass through the closing ranks of clerks. Scotty snatched the cat out of the air. Rick followed through with a battering charge that sent a clerk caroming into a stack of copper jars. They went down with a clatter. Another clerk reached out and Rick gave him a straight arm that cleared the way long enough for a jump to the outside.

"Run!" he yelled.

Hassan had been standing with mouth open, astonished at the proceedings. Now, as a clerk charged through the door, the dragoman flung himself sideways in a beautiful body block that sent the clerk back into the store with a crash. Then the three were rounding the corner at top speed, pushing through the people in the street.

From behind them came a shouted command in Arabic. A figure in a long, dirty robe stepped into Scotty's path and grabbed for the cat. The boy tossed a lateral pass to Rick, who tucked the package under his arm. Scotty's hand lashed out and his open palm caught the Arab under the chin. The man lifted inches into the air and his head thudded audibly against a brick wall. He lost all interest in the proceedings.

Hassan led the way like a charging lineman, with Rick in his wake. Scotty fell back a few paces to prevent attack from behind. But in spite of a few yells from the rear, no one else menaced them. The people of the bazaar obviously were curious, but not involved.

Rick had a fleeting thought that a pair of obvious foreigners running at top speed through a department store at home would arouse some curiosity, too. He grinned, in spite of his bewilderment. Then they were at the car. Hassan wheeled the little sedan around in almost its own length and charged through the crowded streets like a miniature juggernaut, heading back to the hotel.

A short time later over cafÉ au lait, part coffee and part hot milk, the boys and Hassan held a half-angry, half-amused post mortem. There had been no opportunity in the car for real conversation because of the sheer adventure of rocketing through impossible traffic at equally impossible speed. Rick had reported briefly to Scotty, and that was all.

Scotty took a sip from his steaming cup and turned to Hassan. "You ever play football?"

Hassan stumbled over the word. "Footsball? What are footsball?"

"Never mind." Scotty grinned. "The way you took that clerk out, I thought you might have played blocking back for the Green Bay Packers."

The dragoman's bewilderment deepened. Rick came to his rescue. "Football is an American game, Hassan. It is rough. The Green Bay Packers is the name of a famous professional football team."

"One thing is for sure," Scotty offered. "The clerks didn't know football. That flat pass you threw was good for plenty of yardage."

"It made a touchdown," Rick pointed out. He changed the subject. "Look, what went on in that store, anyway? I don't know who the big man was, but he wasn't Ali Moustafa. At least he didn't come close to Bartouki's description."

"Why didn't you give him the cat, anyway?" Scotty asked with a grin. "Afraid a brand-new mystery might end without you getting a piece of it?"

Rick grinned back. "Not a bad idea, now that you mention it. I didn't think of it at the time. The only thing I knew for sure was that I wasn't going to hand over any helpless little pussycat to a guy with eyes like that. He'd mistreat it."

"Uhuh. Only, now what do we do with the cat?"

"Give it to the right Ali Moustafa," Rick said. "There must be a right one somewhere."

Scotty waved his arm in a gesture that took in all of Egypt, half of the Sudan, and most of Libya. "Help yourself. I'll bet there are ten thousand Ali Moustafas around. How do you find the right one?"

Rick didn't try to answer. Instead, he asked Hassan, "Could there be another Ali Moustafa in El Mouski?"

The guide shook his head. "I ask my friend when we stop. He say there is only one, and he tell me how we get there."

Rick's brows furrowed. "Then that must be the shop Bartouki meant. Only where was big, fat, jolly Ali Moustafa? Or could I be wrong about the description?"

Scotty was definite. "Not a chance. I remember the description the way you do. Either Bartouki didn't know his own partner, or the man you saw was not Ali Moustafa—unless he took off weight and shaved his beard. And changed his disposition in the bargain."

"Which brings us back to the question before the house. What do we do with the Egyptian cat?"

"Give it to Hassan," Scotty suggested with a smile.

The dragoman's pleasant black face assumed an air of great sadness. "Cat's nice," he said. "But no can take. Too much cost for food."

Rick smiled at the joke, then suddenly he realized Hassan was not joking. He was genuinely sad! He took the package from his lap and held it up. "Hassan, what do you think is in here?"

The dragoman shrugged. "You say cat. I believe."

Scotty asked incredulously, "Didn't you think carrying a cat wrapped in paper was pretty strange?"

Hassan smiled apologetically. "Americans many time do thing I not understand."

Rick choked back laughter with a heroic effort and almost strangled. Scotty found a handkerchief and blew his nose violently.

"Pretty strong coffee," Rick managed finally.

Scotty nodded, struggling to keep a straight face. Neither of them wanted to risk hurting the guide's feelings.

"Hassan," Rick said at last, "even American science couldn't keep a live, wide-awake cat quiet in a paper parcel. This cat is a model, a statue. You see?"

For an instant Hassan stared, then he rocked back, his white teeth flashed, and he shouted with laughter. The boys broke down, too, and in a moment the entire patronage of the coffee shop was staring at the three idiots who roared with unrestrained laughter in public. Such behavior in Americans was to be deplored, perhaps, but understandable. But a licensed dragoman ... incredible!

When they had quieted down, Rick summed it up. "Well, Hassan knows what's in the package now, but that's the only new bit of information any of us has. We still don't know exactly what happened in the bazaar, or why. And we don't know what to do with the cat."

He felt the cat through the heavy paper, as though to reassure himself it was there. Suddenly he didn't want to get rid of it quite so urgently, and inwardly he laughed at himself. A mystery was one thing he couldn't ignore.

"I hope I'm wrong," he concluded thoughtfully, "but I have a hunch this little plastic feline is going to be more trouble than the liveliest real cat you ever saw!"