2 a.m.
Rrisa , he found , had already unpacked his kit , and had arranged it to perfection . Even a copper bowl of khat , the `` flower of paradise , '' was awaiting him . The Master sat down , chewed a few leaves and indulged in a little time of what the Arabs call _ kayf _ , or complete relaxation and inner contemplation -- a restful trick he had learned many years ago on the coast of Yemen . The ticking of the aluminum-cased chronometer , now marking a little past 2 a.m. , soothed him , as did the droning hum of the propellers , the piping whistle of the ship-made hurricane round the fuselage , the cradling swing and rock of the air-liner hurling herself almost due east . After some quarter-hour of absolute rest , he rang for his Arab orderly . Rrisa appeared at once . Already he had got himself into his military uniform , the one he had worn at Gallipoli when the Master had saved his life .