THE BEWITCHING BLONDE MAHARANI HAD BEEN WAITING FOR HIM—FOR A VERY LONG TIME... . With a low whining sound the big cat came slinking out of the dark brush, heading anxiously for the deep nuullah, its taut muscles twitching with fear and con- fusion as it looked back to where the row of native beaters were advancing with noisy caution, I hesitated a moment, suddenly not wanting to kill it, suddenly aware of the arrows of heat stabbing into my neck from the hot Indian sun, and the expectant silence of the people around me. The velvet reality of the night before was gone, replaced by a harsh new reality of excitement and death The tiger was the most beautiful animal I’d ever seen, even though its sleek striped coat was ruffled and smeared with mud and its menacing yellow fangs stood out naked from its thin black lips. Beautiful and violent, I thought, just as the woman beside me was beautiful and violent. The only difference was the cat was mine for the shooting, and the woman would probably never belong to me, My host, the Maharajah of Orhistan, a round-bellied little man with sagging jowls and black pebble eyes, pointed at it and nodded to me, T was the guest and the pleasure of this kill was to be mine, The whole shikar = 82 hhad, in fact, been arranged for my benefit. The Mahara- jah believed in treating his guests right, Nervously I jerked my heavy rifle to my shoulder and squeezed off a shot. The tiger bounced into the air, howl- ing with sudden anger and sudden pain, turning halfway around before it hit the ground again. I fired the second barrel and the rifle jumped against my cheek, Blood sputrted across the dried grass and the cat dropped in an orange and black heap. The clatter of the beaters stopped abruptly, For a moment, heavy silence hung in the smoldering air, “Well done!” The Maharajah exclaimed briskly, slap- ping me on the back. “How do you feel, getting your first tiger?” T forced a smile, a litle weak in the legs. This kind of sport wasn't for me, I'd had enough of -this outdoor shooting gallery. “T think I need a drink,” T said, ‘The Maharajah laughed. Natives were closing in cau- tiously on the dead animal, their long curved fukris for the skinning ritual. My host waddled happily forward to survey the ruins. I started to follow him when a soft, cool hand touched my cheek. It hurt likehell and 1 could taste blood in my mouth, [ hadn't fired a weapon in a long time. “That rifle has a nasty kick to it,” a gentle voice with asslightly crisp British accent declared. ‘Turning, I looked into a pair of wide, concerned blue eyes set under a tidy mass of blonde hair partly hidden by a clean white fopee. ‘She was the Maharani of Orhistan, an English girl who'd made good by marrying a dusky fat fake with a if Kingdom and a palace full of gold. He was at least forty years her senior, which probably explained the lonely, withdrawn look on her pale British face. But it ‘was an interesting face, with a delicately carved nose and sential red lips, set off by a long graceful neck balanced on a body that protruded in all the right places. A teasing, tempting body that I knew was going to drive me right ‘out of Orhistan, “Everything around here seems to have a kick,” I said, removing her hand and pressing it for a moment. She smiled slightly, almost demurely. “About last night ...” she began. “Mera dost?” The Maharajah called, interrupting. “You have a fine trophy ! Come, we take your picture.” 1 gave the girl another smile and joined her husband. It was a fine tiger, all right. My first shot had hit it in the flanks. The second one caught it in the front shoulder, right over the heart. I'd aimed for the head both times. I’m a lousy shot. I lived through two wars by using @ submachine gun, Maybe those wars numbed me to ex: citement and death. As I stared at the body T felt neither excited nor pleased. I was just a little remorseful about the brutal senselessness of it all. ‘The Maharajah unsheathed a big, expensive camera and took several shots of me standing heroically over the dead tiger. “The skin is a little spoiled,” he sai “Big holes. But the head is perfect. T for you.” The natives started hacking at the body. Pink and purple guts swelled out on the ground and vultures swooped in to perch on nearby trees and stare eagerly. “Thanks,” I said, trying to look happy, trying to keep my eyes away from the Maharani in her tight-fitting slacks and open-necked white shirt, trying to block out the tormenting memory of last night. (turn over) resetting his lens. Ihave it mountedDid the old boy suspect anything, I wondered? Not that there was too much to suspect. Just enough to make ime feel like a heel after all the hospitality he'd shown me. Tnever savored the civilized sport of hunting other men’s, wives, any more than I savored the more primitive busi- ness of tiger hunting. That’s my big trouble, I guess. Too sensitive. Too many morals. They didn’t fit an oil engi- neer from a little hick town in the States. ‘My company had sent me to Orhistan, an isolated little halat in India, to make an initial survey for oil. We knew there wasn’t much of a chance of finding any, but in our business we have to search constantly, never ignoring any possibilities. Since most of my survey was on the Maharajah’s land, he'd welcomed me into his house- hold and even footed most of my expenses. It wouldn't be cricket to repay him by dragging his wife off into the bushes when he wasn’t looking. But this familiar body chemistry, pulling me towards the Maharani in spite of myself, was turning the whole episode into a nightmare. Albeit a pleasant nightmare, this running away from myself in the hot jungles and cool palaces. This living in Oriental luxury in the middle of nowhere. This terrible, gnawing temptation with the beautiful Maharani, The night before we'd had a brief moment together alone under the mango trees of the palace garden, waiting for her husband to set up his projector to show some of his home movies. Photography was one of his expensive hobbies. Blondes were another one. A blonde female is a rarity in that part of the world. A very choice morsel in a land of dark, thin women, That's why the young Maharani enjoyed more freedom and respect than his other wives. I wondered what her price had been, how much she'd sold herself for. ‘That night she was wearing a native sari, a tight- fitting silk wrapping that hugged the high slopes of her breasts and the round firmness of her flanks. She was the neatest package of trouble I’d come across in a long time. “Tm glad you've come to Orhistan,” she'd said, edging towards me in the scented darkness. “It gets quite lonely here.” “What about your husband?” in my pockets “He doesn’t care much anymore. He’s getting rather old.” Her expression left no doubt as to her meaning. “He keeps me around as just another . .. another expen- sive import . .. like a car or a camera that he’s bought and gotten tired of. “Then she was leaning against me and her long leg was rubbing against my thigh, T took my hands out of my pockets “Look . .. this is too risky. been pretty good to me. T can't. Her lips were tight against my mouth, drowning the words, and her hot, pointed tongue was planting fires in my brain, My hands groped over the soft, yielding flesh “Besides,” she whispered in my car, “he has. three other wives ... and , ... many others. But he doesn’t pay much attention to any of us any more. I’ve been waiting so long for you to come. ..” “But you live in the harem . under guard, How...” I dug my hands deep ” T began. “Besides, he’s in the sananas ‘That tongue was nibbling into my reason, “There are ways,” she said finally. “We'll find a way...” Like most home movies, the Maharajah’s were lousy. Her protnise kept rattling round in my mind after we returned from the hunt. T kept telling myself T couldn't go through with it. It was too dangerous, too lowdown. But my body was aching, starving for her and 1 was afraid. After showering in my plush room at the palace, I changed into a fresh linen suit and went downstairs again, I found the Maharajah in the huge reception hall, with its dozens of sofas and overstuffed chairs and old, expensive oil paintings. He was sitting on the floor, in cross-legged Indian fashion, poring over an envelope of rare stamps that had come in that day's mail. “Wonderful stamps here, mera dost, wonderful! Did you ever collect stamps?” “No... [don’t have many hobbies.” J started to squat beside him, “Please. . .” He protested. “Use a chair. I find this ‘more comfortable. Would you like chi?” “No, thanks.” I dropped into one of the luxurious chairs. “Perhaps something cool . .. whiskey “Lime juice might help. It's getting hot.” He clapped his hands and a servant materialized in- stantly out of a doorway. There were always serv: all over the place. The Maharajah gave him a brisk order and he disappeared, “The Maharani has gone to her apartments. I'm afraid she doesn’t care for shikar much any more.” He turned back to his stamps. “The jungle has a corrosive effect on women as civilized as the Maharani. It’s a tiresome, hard life here for her.” I watched him cautiously. He was studying a stamp through a magnifying glass. Big fans in the ceiling started spinning silently. The tepid air stirred slightly. “She has everything she could want, doesn’t she?” T asked. “I mean ... life here must be what every woman dreams of, “No . .. it is an empty life.” There was a wistful note in his voice. “Things have changed since my father’s days, Now the Maharajah is just a figurehead. The gov- ment has taken most of my property. The people don’t respect me any more. ‘The servant returned with a pitcherful of ice and green liquid. I took a glassful and sipped at it in awkward silence. “T... worst of all... I have no heir,” he continued. “When I die, all that is left will be seized by the govern- ment.” “No heir?” I leaned forward, wondering what he was lime juice?” driving at “Only daughters... . and they don’t count. Isn't it disgusting? I've had—” he paused for 2 moment, con- sidering—“about three hundred wives... who gave me six sons and one hundred and twenty-six daughters. The sons weré all weak. One died at birth. One was killed in a hunting accident. And four of them died in the plague a few years back. .. Now there is no hope for any more, I kriow that there will be no more children—not even more daughters. Time, you see, is even more corrosive than the jungles.” He sighed. “Can't you adopt a son?” “No . \ . that is not legal in the eyes of my people, my government, or my God.” T couldn't think of anything clse to say. The stacked-up tiger hunt and everything else was draining away the glamour and spirit of adventure I'd felt when I'd first arrived in Orhistan. I knew I would have to leave soon. “You are lucky, mera dost. You have a world to play with. You have youth. That is the greatest wealth of all. All of my palaces and all my fortunes can’t buy that back + can't help my tired groin.” I drank my lime juice soberly. I was beginning to realize this old man was sharper than T'd figured. At first he'd seemed clownish and senile but now I saw him as he really was—broken and tired and lonely, facing only a few more hunts in his big outdoor shooting gallery, and a few more packages of stamps from London and New York. And then death and emptiness and the end of his, dwindling kingdom. “The Maharani . .. she has changed since you arrived ‘You have given her someone to talk to. In fact, you have brought new life to this whole palace.” He paused sig- nificantly. “Mera dost... my friend . . . I love you like a brother . . . like a son. . . You're welcome here as no other man has been welcomed, My palaces are yours while you stay.” He lifted his eyes and looked straight at me. There was sincerity and compassion on his face. “T hope you will stay a long time and make use of all my hospitality.” “You're very generous,” I said, not knowing really quite what to say or how to say it. “But my work will be finished soon... too soon, I'm afraid.” “You have found no oil “No” “Just as well. The government would have used it as an excuse to raise my taxes and cut off my other 1 Maharani came gliding into the room, looking fresh and clean and beautiful in another of her tight- fitting saris. Her husband and I rose to our feet. “Ahhh... we were just speaking of you,” he said with a faint smile, He turned to me. “Isn't she beautiful? She is my finest treasure.” She looked at him warily. “Why the sudden flattery 2” “Sudden? Is it? Have I been neglecting you, my dear?” “No more than usual.” ‘m sorry.” He gathered up his stamps and focussed his tiny eyes on me with a new expression. A man-to-man look. “That was a fine tiger this taorning. You did very well. Thave seen men run away from tigers. I'm glad you are not afraid.” He touched the girl's hand. “Tm a bit tired. Will you excuse me? I think I'l sleep fora while.” He left the room with that weary, shuffling waddle of his. The girl was puzzled. “What's got into him? He’s never left us alone like this before,” she said, worriedly. “Hee knows.” Alarm flared in her wide blue eyes. “Did he say 502” “Not directly. But he knows.” Her proud figure suddenly slumped. “What will we do?” (turn to page 60)RIDE THE TIGRESS (continued from page 55) “Nothing. He doesn’t care. That’s the terrible part of it, He doesn't care about anything, He's old and tired and disappointed. I think he wants me to love you.” I got up and walked to her chair. “Be careful! The servants!” There was something crafty and disturbed about her now but she smiled up at me and the sinile was filled with promise. Promising like a tigress coiling to spring is promising. Under her ished veneer T could see something primitive and dirty. I didn’t like it but I couldn't help myself. “Do you think he might be planning some sort of trap?” Tasked. “T don't think so.” She shook her head. “He isn’t that way. He may be an ugly Indian but he’s honest and gentle... if he knows... if he approves . . . why shouldn't we go ahead ? “When?” “Tonight. Come to the zananas tonight.” “What about the guards?” “There's only one . . . and he’s not very alert... Vl send him on some errand ... . the door will be unlocked.” “Al right, then, Tonight.” Sound creeps in with the jungle darkness. Myriad animal sounds, calling and screeching in the blackness beyond the palace walls, After dinner, the Maharajah went off to his photo darkroom and I tried to work on a company report but the low jungle sounds disturbed me and I felt that drunken ache that precludes a long- anticipated amorous adventure. Finally I closed my type- writer and walked out into the gardens, past the broad, still pools with lotus blossoms drifting around their edges, through the shadows of the sweet smelling trees, to the big red building that housed the harem . . . or what was left of it ‘The door of the zananas was unlocked and there was no guard in sight. I entered a long, carpeted corridor reeking with incense and perfume and felt my way through the darkness to a great open doorway leading into a large reception room that was obviously long unused, An old-fashioned upright piano stood against ‘one wall and there were several couches draped with faded silk. An Indian girl was waiting there and she glided softly towards me. She was tall and thin, with dark warm eyes that appraised me hungrily. She was wearing what Ori- ental women usually wear in the privacy of their homes: a thin, filmy strip of silk over her pert breasts and an abbreviated skirt gitdling her thighs. She motioned for me to follow and took me up a. wide staircase to an enormous bedroom, fitted out with silken sheets, old tapestries depicting naked men and women in erotic positions, and a huge, canopied bed. Tt must have been the room sed by the Maharajah back in the days when he was still trying to sire a son. The girl bowed out and T stood in the center of the room, waiting. T didn’t have to wait long. Into that dense blackn hot and humid as the jungle where I'd shot the big cat, « fornr found me. « “You're so late, “1 hurried.” “Tt wasn't fast enough.” “TI make it up to you.” ‘Then silence and the sensuous touch of hand that was like a tiger at the Kill in its slow patient urgency. ‘They pressed me backward until the touch of silken covers on a couch caught me back of the knees and I fell backward on the great soft bed. Inside me the bur- geoning passion grew to a mounting pitch and I wanted to cry out with the intensity of it. I scized the form in my arms and felt the warmth of it, like the humid heat of the black night, only this had life and movement and passion of its own. The growth of it became an ecstatic thing. The night about me was filled with soft voicings of its urgency like the great tigress in the jungle, about to make her kill leisurely, but with excitement. Then they ceased and a sighing momentarily took their place. Again, and again this happened throughout the night and the odor of the jungle and the room mingled and became one heady thing to me. It was like an exausting dream i which I gorged myself on ripe, desperately willing fire in the backness of that jungle room. ‘Morning announced itself with slivers of light through the drawn curtains of the window. I was very relieved the night had ended. The Maharani came in, bright and gay, with a tray of coffee. “You'd better leave now before it becomes too light,” she said. T nodded. She sat down beside me and touched me lovingly with a soft warm hand. I pulled back and she laughed—her voice tinged with rekindled desire. “You are wonderful. Perhaps . “Tonight,” I said firmly, “I’m goi your husband's whiskey and sleep. ” she whispered. ing to get plastered on ‘At lunch that day the Maharajah commened slyly on my haggard, tired-out appearance. “T didn't get much sleep last night. Had a terrible toothache,” I explained lamely. “I'm sorry, You'd better forget about working today and try to get some rest.” He grinned knowingly. “Rest is very important if you wish to sustain your strength and vigor.” A few days later I left Orhistan, still tired. The Ma- harajah seemed sincerely sorry to see me go. So did the Maharani, though I hadn't accepted any of her further invitations. I was sorry to say goodbye to the old boy. Now I knew what he was up against. And I knew there was something more corrosive than either time or the jungle. He was just simply a victim of haremitis—a disease T didn’t want to catch. Some time after my stay there I read a brief item in Time stating that the 68-year old Maharajah of Orhistan, hhad graciously been blessed with a son. After that I had a tough time explaining how a mining engineer with my salary could afford to drive around in a custom-made Rolls Royce. Nobody seems to believe me when I tell them it’s a gift from a grateful friend. Pp aa a a iSN APPROACH TO RELAXATION (Pee i”