“There are no accidents in this world,” the Scorpion said, holding out his hand as if to catch a falling star. “My coming is no accident, either. Arabia stands poised between greatness and slavery like a spinning globe balanced on the tip of a juggler’s finger. My kismet has brought me back now, at this dark hour, to do the thing that I was born to do.”

“Like Antar of ancient days,” Faisal mocked gently, as if to remind the Scorpion of his youthful hero worship.

“Yes, like Antar,” Youssef said boyishly. “Why not?”

The Scorpion smiled sadly, remembering his childhood enthusiasm. He wondered if the boy he had been would recognize anything of himself in the icy agent he had become. He doubted it. “No, not like Antar. Like the Scorpion, the oldest of land animals because it has learned best how to survive,” he said, looking around the fire at their faces.

“What is it you need of us?” Sheikh Zaid asked.

“A fast mugathir, your best, to ride in the King’s Camel Race. Allow the Americans to air-drop a radio, a technician to man the radio, and weapons. None need join me. I seek no help from anyone and no harm to the tribe. And let there be no blood feuds to arise out of what I do,” the Scorpion replied, ticking the items off on his fingers,

“And we are to do all this, for the Saudi family?” Muhammed sneered and looked pointedly away.

“We risk more by doing nothing. If all we do is sit and talk like women, there will soon be civil war. And in the days after that there will be Roosees in the Hasa Desert. Allah has given us this foreknowledge even as he gave us the oil, for his own reasons, not ours. I have come to act, not talk,” the Scorpion said.

“So now you are Allah’s agent. This borders on blasphemy!” Muhammed growled, holding his hands up to heaven in exasperation.

“All men are Allah’s agents, whether they know it or not,” the Scorpion retorted.

“Truly,” Sheikh Zaid said, clapping his hands on his knees in approval. There were murmurs of “ya Allah” from some of the others.

“So—we are to do this thing for the Saudis,” Youssef declared, rubbing his hands together like a merchant about to close a lucrative sale.

The Scorpion shook his head. “Neither for the Saudis, nor the Americans, whatever they think. We do this for the Mutayr. The Hasa, its oil and water, belongs to us,” the Scorpion said. He stood in a fluid motion and drew his khanjar from its sheath. The steel blade reflected the red firelight like a tiny sun.

“I will kill anyone who tries to take it from us,” he declared.