"What news?" he demanded, barging into the council room, where his subordinates sat around the table touching the unfamiliar nakedness under their noses.
"There is no answer from the Americans," reported the information minister. "Even the ambassador has abandoned the embassy."
He turned to the defense minister, his eyes pleading for good news.
"The American demons have taken their battle to the western outskirts of the city," the man reported.
"They are going away?" he asked, hope brightening his voice.
"It is impossible to say. But they have destroyed the entire western antimissile missile battery. Abominadad is now defenseless against an air attack."
"There is still our air force," the chief air-force general put in.
"Which will be decimated within two hours of a U.S. first strike," said the Iraiti secretary of the navy, which was only slightly larger than the Irish navy.
No one disputed that. They all watched CNN, which had predicted this was inevitable, so they knew it was true.
Through the windows came an extended tortured crackling sound, like a thousand logs going through a car-crushing machine.
"What is that?" the president gasped, clutching the table edge.
The information minister went to a window.
"It is the royal Kurani roller coaster," he said. "It is being torn apart. They have climbed atop it and are battling furiously."
Taking up a pair of field glasses, the president went to the window.
He saw them clearly this time. Both the American who wore the purple and red of an Aladdin, and the nude blond American woman with more arms than were wholesome.
They were tearing off sections of track and using them as bludgeons. Each time a blow fell, the entire rickety roller coaster trembled like a precarious house of wooden matchsticks.
"Who is winning?" asked the foreign minister.
"It is as before," Azziz returned. "They are stalemated. Yet they seem tireless. What manner of beings could these be?"
No one had an answer to that.
Presently the defense minister had an idea.
"Perhaps there is a way to defeat them," he offered, his dark eyes alight.
The president lowered his field glasses. "Tell me."
"Gases. We will pour war gases down upon them."
"Will this work?"
"They have noses. They must breathe like mortals. If they breathe the gases in, they must die."
"Is it not dangerous to us?" wondered Azziz.
The defense minister shrugged unconcernedly. "The wind is from the east. The enemy are to the west. We may lose some of our western sector, but we will lose more than that if this madness continues unchecked."
The president considered only a moment. "Do it," he commanded.
Since the only missile battery in Abominadad had been decimated, the defense minister had to call the outpost of the Abaddon Air Base in order to effect a Scud strike.
"Yes, that is correct," he said. "I did say to launch your missiles at Abominadad. The western sector. The former Maddas City. You can do this?"
The defense minister listened. Absently he reached up to brush his mustache. Touching bare flesh, he felt a stab of fear. Then he remembered. It was safe to be without a mustache in Irait now that Maddas Hinsein was no more.
When the word came back that the missiles would soon be launched, the defense minister said, "Thank you," and lowered the phone to its cradle.
He heard the click just as the president shouted, "Wait! Do not launch!"
"Why not?"
"The wind has now shifted this way! In the name of Allah, call them back!"
Frantically the defense minister picked up the receiver. He began stabbing the keypad, his eyes starting from his head, his face sprouting a hot sheen of sweat.
Two rings later a bored voice said, "Achmed's Tyre Emporium."
This time true fear clutched at the defense minister's heart and would not let go. He stood there, his eyes stricken, the annoyed "Hello? Hello?" assaulting his unhearing ears through the trembling receiver.
"You have called it off?" shouted the president.
The defense minister hesitated, his tongue a cold slug of fear in his dry mouth. Should be reveal that he had misdialed, or should he try again? With a new president it was impossible to tell which was the survivable option.
Then all choice fled the defense minister's mind.
From beyond the windows where the rest of the Revolting Command Council watched came a low roaring. It swelled to a screech, and at the apex of the sound came a steady crump crump crump.
Air-raid sirens wailed. From roofs all over Abominadad, antiaircraft artillery opened up, sending reddish-orange tracers streaking into the clear heavens.
The faces of the Revolting Command Council turned, eyes wide, mustacheless mouths forming identical bloodless lines. They regarded the defense minister with stupefied expressions.
Recognizing his predicament, the defense minister decided to lie.
"It was too late," he said miserably. "My loyal forces, eager to perform their sacred duty, could not wait to execute my order. It is done."
"So," said President Razzik Azziz thickly, "are we, brother Arabs. For all three missiles have missed. One has landed on this side of the Tigris. There are gases coming this way."
Then a gruff voice asked a deceptively innocuous question. It was the last voice any of them ever expected to hear again. It chilled their marrow as it asked:
"Where are all your mustaches?"