s were dark
green fabric; a third was golden rust; the fourth opened upon the
private garden.

Murphy's bed was a pink and yellow creation ten feet square, soft as
cobweb, smelling of rose sandalwood. Carved black lacquer tubs held
fruit; two dozen wines, liquors, syrups, essences flowed at a touch from
as many ebony spigots.

The garden centered on a pool of cool water, very pleasant in the
hothouse climate of Singhalut. The only shortcoming was the lack of the
lovely young servitors Murphy had envisioned. He took it upon himself to
repair this lack, and in a shady wine-house behind the palace, called
the Barangipan, he made the acquaintance of a girl-musician named Soek
Panjoebang. He found her enticing tones of quavering sweetness from the
_gamelan_, an instrument well-loved in Old Bali. Soek Panjoebang had the
delicate features and transparent skin of Sumatra, the supple long limbs
of Arabia and in a pair of wide and golden eyes a heritage from
somewhere in Celtic Europe. Murphy bought her a goblet of frozen
shavings, each a different perfume, while he himself drank white
rice-beer. Soek Panjoebang displayed an intense interest in the ways of
Earth, and Murphy found it hard to guide the conversation. "Weelbrrr,"
she said. "Such a funny name, Weelbrrr. Do you think I could play the
_gamelan_ in the great cities, the great palaces of Earth?"

"Sure. There's no law against _gamelans_."

"You talk so funny, Weelbrrr. I like to hear you talk."

"I suppose you get kinda bored here in Singhalut?"

She shrugged. "Life is pleasant, but it concerns with little things. We
have no great adventures. We grow flowers, we play the _gamelan_." She
eyed him archly sidelong. "We love.... We sleep...."

Murphy grinned. "You run _amok_."

"No, no, no. That is no more."

"Not since the sjambaks, eh?"

"The sjambaks are bad. But better than _amok_. When a man feels the knot
forming around his chest, he no longer takes his kris and runs down the
street--he becomes sjambak."

This was getting interesting. "Where does he go? What does he do?"

"He robs."

"Who does he rob? What does he do with his loot?"

She leaned toward him. "It is not well to talk of them."

"Why not?"

"The Sultan does not wish it. Everywhere are listeners. When one talks
sjambak, the Sultan's ears rise, like the points on a cat."

"Suppose they do--what's the difference? I've got a legitimate interest.
I saw one of them in that cage out there. Tha