Border, Breed Nor Birth

IV

Following the attack of the unidentified rocket craft, El Hassan’s party was twice again nearly flushed by reconnoitering planes of unknown origin. They weren’t making the time they wanted.

Beneath a projecting rock face over a gravel-bottomed wadi, the two hover-lorries were hidden, whilst a slow-moving helio-jet made sweeping, high-altitude circlings above them.

The six stared glumly upward.

Cliff Jackson, who was on the radio, called out, “I just picked him up. He’s called in to Fort Lamy reporting no luck. His fuel’s running short and he’ll be knocking off soon.”

Homer Crawford rapped, “What language?”

“French,” Cliff said, “but it’s not his. I mean he’s not French, just using the language.”

Bey’s face was as glum as any and there was a tic at the side of his mouth. He said now, “We’ve got to come up with something. Sooner or later one of them will spot us and this next time we won’t have any fantastic breaks like Homer being able to knock him off with a Tommy-Noiseless. He’ll drop a couple of neopalms and burn up a square mile of desert including El Hassan and his whole crew.”

Homer looked at him. “Any ideas, Bey?”

“No,” the other growled.

Homer Crawford said, “Any of the rest of you?”

Isobel was frowning, bringing something back. “Why don’t we travel at night?”

“And rest during the day?” Homer said.

Kenny said, “Parking where? We just made it to this wadi. If we’re caught out in the dunes somewhere when one of those planes shows up, we’ve had it. You couldn’t hide a jackrabbit out there.”

But Bey and Homer Crawford were still looking at Isobel.

She said, “I remember a story the Tuaregs used to tell about a raid some of them made back during the French occupation. They stole four hundred camels near Timbuktu one night and headed north. The French weren’t worried. The next morning, they simply sent out a couple of aircraft to spot the Tuareg raiders and the camels. Like Kenny said, you couldn’t hide a jackrabbit in dune country. But there was nothing to be seen. The French couldn’t believe it, but they still weren’t really worried. After all, a camel herd can travel only thirty or so miles a day. So the next day the planes went out again, circling, circling, but they still didn’t spot the thieves and their loot, nor the next day. Well, to shorten it, the Tuareg got their four hundred camels all the way up to Spanish Rio de Oro where they sold them.”

She had their staring attention. “How?” Elmer blurted.

“It was simple. They traveled all night and then, at dawn, buried the camels and themselves in the sand and stayed there all day.”

Homer said, “I’m sold. Boys, I hope you’re in physical trim because there’s going to be quite a bit of digging for the next few days.”

Cliff groaned. “Some Minister of the Treasury,” he complained. “They give him a shovel instead of a bankbook.”

Everyone laughed.

Bey said, “Well, I suppose we stay here until nightfall.”

“Right,” Homer said. “Whose turn is it to pull cook duty?”

Isobel said menacingly, “I don’t know whose turn it is, but I know I’m going to do the cooking. After that slumgullion Kenny whipped up yesterday, I’m a perpetual volunteer for the job of chef—strictly in self-defense.”

“That was a cruel cut,” Kenny protested, “however, I hereby relinquish all my rights to cooking for this expedition.”

“And me!”

“And me!”

“O.K.,” Homer said, “so Isobel is Minister of the Royal Kitchen.” He looked at Elmer Allen. “Which reminds me. You’re our junior theoretician. Are we a monarchy?”

Elmer Allen scowled sourly and sat down, his back to the wadi wall “I wouldn’t think so.”

Isobel went off to make coffee in the portable galley in the rear of the second hovercraft. The others brought forth tobacco and squatted or sat near the dour Jamaican. Years in the desert had taught them the nomad’s ability to relax completely, given opportunity.

“So if it’s not a monarchy, what’ll we call El Hassan?” Kenny demanded.

Elmer said slowly, thoughtfully, “We’ll call him simply El Hassan. Monarchies are of the past, and El Hassan is the voice of the future, something new. We won’t admit he’s just a latter-day tyrant, an opportunist seizing power because it’s there crying to be seized. Actually, El Hassan is in the tradition of Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, or, more recently, Napoleon. But he’s a modern version, and we’re not going to hang the old labels on him.”

Isobel had brought the coffee. “I think you’re right,” she said.

“Sold,” Homer agreed. “So we aren’t a monarchy. We’re a tyranny.” His face had begun by expressing amusement, but that fell off. He added, “As a young sociologist, I never expected to wind up a literal tyrant.”

Elmer Allen said, “Wait a minute. See if I can remember this. Comes from Byron.” He closed his eyes and recited: “The tyrant of the Chersonese 3.5 Was freedom’s best and bravest friend. That tyrant was Miltiades, Oh that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind. Such bonds as his were sure to bind.”

Isobel, pouring coffee, laughed and said, “Why Elmer, who’d ever dream you read verse, not to speak of memorizing it, you old sourpuss.”

Elmer Allen’s complexion was too dark to register a flush.

Homer Crawford said, “Yeah, Miltiades. Seized power, whipped the Athenians into shape to the point where they were able to take the Persians at Marathon, which should have been impossible.” He looked around at the others, winding up with Elmer. “What happened to Miltiades after Marathon and after the emergency was over?”

Elmer looked down into his coffee. “I don’t remember,” he lied.

There was a clicking from the first hover-lorry. Cliff Jackson put down his coffee, groaned his resentment at fate and made his way to the vehicle and the radio there.

Bey motioned with his head. “That’s handy, our still being able to tune in on the broadcasts the African Development Project makes to its teams.”

Kenny said, “Not that what they’ve been saying is much in the way of flattery.”

Bey said, “They seem to think we’re somewhere in the vicinity of Bidon Cinq.”

“That’s what worries me,” Homer growled. He raked his right hand back through his short hair. “If they think we’re in Southern Algeria, what are these planes doing around here? We’re hundreds of miles from Bidon Cinq.”

Bey shot him an oblique glance. “That’s easy. That plane that tried to clobber us, and these others that have been trying to search us out, aren’t really Reunited Nations craft. They’re someone else.”

They all looked at him. “Who?” Isobel said.

“How should I know? It could be almost anybody with an iron in the North African fire. The Soviet Complex? Very likely. The British Commonwealth or the French Community? Why not? There’re elements in both that haven’t really accepted giving up the old colonies and would like to regain them in one way or the other. The Arab Union? Why comment? Common Europe? Oh, Common Europe would love to have a free hand exploiting North Africa.”

“You haven’t mentioned the United States of the Americas,” Elmer said dryly. “I hope you haven’t any prejudices in favor of the land of your adoption, Mr. Minister of War.”

Bey shrugged. “I just hadn’t got around to her. Admittedly, with the continued growth of the Soviet Complex and Common Europe, the States have slipped from the supreme position they occupied immediately following the Second War. The more power-happy elements are conscious of the ultimate value of control of Africa and doubly conscious of the danger of it falling into the hands of someone else. Oh, never fear, those planes that have been pestering us might belong to anybody at all.”

Cliff Jackson hurried back from his radio, his face anxious. “Listen,” he said. “That was a high priority flash, to all Reunited Nations teams. The Arab Union has just taken Tamanrasset. They pushed two columns out of Libya, evidently one from Ghat and one from further north near Ghadames.”

Homer Crawford was on his feet, alert. “Well … why?”

Cliff had what amounted to accusation on his face. “Evidently, the El Hassan rumors are spreading like wildfire. There’ve been more riots in Mopti, and the Reunited Nations buildings in Adrar have been stormed by mobs demonstrating for him. The Arab Union is moving in on the excuse of protecting the country against El Hassan.”

Kenny Ballalou groaned, “They’ll have half their Arab Legion in here before the week’s out.”

Cliff finished with, “The Reunited Nations is throwing a wingding. Everybody running around accusing and threatening, and, as per usual, getting nowhere.”

Homer Crawford’s face was working in thought. He shook his head at Kenny. “I think you’re wrong. They won’t send the whole Arab Legion in. They’ll be afraid to. They’ll want to see first what everybody else does. They know they can’t stand up to a slugging match with any of the really big powers. They’ll stick it out for a while and watch developments. We have, perhaps, two weeks in which to operate.”

“Operate?” Cliff demanded. “What do you mean, operate?”

Homer’s eyes snapped to him. “I mean to recapture Tamanrasset from the Arab Union, seize the radio and television station there, and proclaim El Hassan’s regime.”

The big Californian’s eyes bugged at him. “You mean the six of us? There’ll be ten thousand of them.”

“No,” Homer said decisively. “Nothing like that number. Possibly a thousand, if that many. Logistics simply doesn’t allow a greater number, not on such short notice. They’ve put a thousand or so of their crack troops into the town. No more.”

Cliff wailed, “What’s the difference between a thousand and twenty thousand, so far as five men and a girl are concerned?”

The rest were saying nothing; they were following the debate.

Crawford explained, not to just Cliff, but to all of them. “Actually, the Arab Union is doing part of our job for us. They’ve openly declared that El Hassan is attempting to take over North Africa, that he’s raising the tribes. Well, good. We didn’t have the facilities to make the announcement ourselves. But now the whole world knows it.”

“That’s right,” Elmer said, his face characteristically sullen. “Every news agency in the world is playing up the El Hassan story. In a matter of days, the most remote nomad encampment in the Sahara will know of it, one way or the other.”

Homer Crawford was pacing, socking his right fist into the palm of the left. “They’ve given us a rallying raison d’etre. These people might be largely Moslem, especially in the north, but they have no love for the Arab Union. For too long the slave raiders came down from the northeast. Given time, Islam might have moved in on the whole of North Africa. But not this way, not in military columns.”

He swung to Bey. “You worked over in the Teda country, before joining my team, and speak the Sudanic dialects. Head for there, Bey. Proclaim El Hassan. Organize a column. We’ll rendezvous at Tamanrasset in exactly two weeks.”

Bey growled, “How am I supposed to get to Faya?”

“You’ll have to work that out yourself. Tonight we’ll drop you near In Guezzam; they have one of the big solar-pump, afforestation developments there. You should be able to, ah, requisition a truck, or possibly even a ‘copter or aircraft. You’re on your own, Bey.”

“Right.”

Homer spun to Kenny Ballalou. “You’re the only one of us who gets along in the dialect of Hassania. Get over to Nemadi country and raise a column. There are no better scouts in the world. Two weeks from today at Tamanrasset.”

“Got it. Drop me off tonight with Bey. We’ll work together until we liberate some transport.”

Bey said, “It might be worth while scouting in In Guezzam for a day or two. We might pick up a couple of El Hassan followers to help us along the way.”

“Use your judgment. Elmer!”

Elmer groaned sourly, “I knew my time’d come.”

“Up into Chaambra country for you. Take the second lorry. You’ve got a distance to go. Try to recruit former members of the French Camel Corps. Promise just about anything, but only remember that one day we’ll have to keep the promises. El Hassan can’t get the label of phony hung on him.”

“Chaambra country,” Elmer said. “Oh great. Arabs. I can just see what luck I’m going to have rousing up Arabs to fight other Arabs, and me with a complexion black as …”

Homer snapped at him, “They won’t be following you, they’ll be following El Hassan—or at least the El Hassan dream. Play up the fact that the Arab Union is largely not of Africa but of the Middle East. That they’re invading the country to swipe the goats and violate the women. Dig up all the old North African prejudices against the Syrians and Egyptians, and the Saudi-Arabian slave traders. You’ll make out.”

Cliff said, nervously, “How about me, Homer?”

Homer looked at him. Cliff Jackson, in spite of his fabulous build, hadn’t a fighting man’s background.

Homer grinned and said, “You’ll work with me. We’re going into Tuareg country. Whenever occasion calls for it, whip off that shirt and go strolling around with that overgrown chest of yours stuck out. The Tuareg consider themselves the best physical specimens in the Sahara, which they are. They admire masculine physique. You’ll wow them.”

Cliff grumbled, “Sounds like vaudeville.”

Isobel said softly, “And me, El Hassan? What do I do?”

Homer turned to her. “You’re also part of headquarters staff. The Tuareg women aren’t dominated by their men. They still have a strong element of descent in the matrilinear line and women aren’t second-class citizens. You’ll work on pressuring them. Do you speak Tamaheq?”

“Of course.”

Homer Crawford looked up into the sky and swept it. The day was rapidly coming to an end and nowhere does day become night so quickly as in the ergs of the Sahara.

“Let’s get underway,” Crawford said. “Time’s a wastin‘.”

The range of the Ahaggar Tuareg was once known, under French administration, as the Annexe du Hoggar, and was the most difficult area ever subdued by French arms—if it was ever subdued. At the battle of Tit on May 7, 1902 the Camel Corps, under Cottenest, broke the combined military power of the Tuareg confederations, but this meant no more than that the tribes and clans carried on nomadic warfare in smaller units.

The Ahaggar covers roughly an area the size of Pennsylvania, New York, Virginia and Maryland combined and supports a population of possibly twelve thousand, which includes about forty-five hundred Tuareg, four thousand Negro serf-slaves, and some thirty-five hundred scorned sedentary Haratin workers. The balance of the population consists of a handful of Enaden smiths and a small number of Arab shopkeepers in the largest of the sedentary centers. Europeans and other whites are all but unknown.

It is the end of the world.

Contrary to Hollywood-inspired belief, the Sahara does not consist principally of sand dunes, although these, too, are present and all but impassable even to camels. Traffic, through the millennia, has held to the endless stretches of gravelly plains and the rock-ribbed plateaus which cover most of the desert. The great sandy wastes or ergs cover roughly a fifth of the entire Sahara, and possibly two thirds of this area consists of the rolling sandy plains dotted occasionally with dunes. The remaining third, or about one fifteenth of the total Sahara, is characterized by the dune formations of popular imagination.

It was through this latter area that Homer Crawford, now with but one hover-lorry, and accompanied by Isobel Cunningham and Clifford Jackson, was heading.

For although the spectacular major dune formations of the Great Erg have defied wheeled vehicles since the era of the Carthaginian chariots, and even the desert-born camel limits his daily travel in them to but a few miles, the modern hovercraft, atop its air-cushion jets, finds them of only passing difficulty to traverse. And the hovercraft leaves no trail.

Cliff Jackson scowled out at the identical scenery. Identical for more than two hundred miles. For twice that distance, they had seen no other life. No animal, no bird, not a sprig of cactus. This was the Great Erg.

He muttered, “This country is so dry even the morning dew is dehydrated.”

Isobel laughed—she, too, had never experienced this country before. “Why, Cliff, you made a funny!”

They were sitting three across in the front seat, with Homer Crawford at the wheel. All three were dressed in the costume of the Kel Rela tribe of the Ahaggar Tuareg confederation. In the back of the lorry were the jerrycans of water and the supplies that meant the difference between life and mummification from sun and heat.

Cliff turned suddenly to the driver “Why here?” he said bitterly. “Why pick this for a base of operations? Why not Mopti? Ten thousand Sudanese demonstrated for El Hassan there less than two weeks ago. You’d have them in the palm of your hand.”

Homer didn’t look up from his work at wheel, lift and acceleration levers. To achieve maximum speed over the dunes you worked constantly at directing motion, not only horizontally but vertically.

He said, “And the twenty and one enemies of the El Hassan movement would have had us in their palms. Our followers in Mopti can take care of themselves. If this movement is ever going to be worth anything, the local characters are going to have to get into the act. The current big thing is not to allow El Hasan and his immediate troupe to be eliminated before full activities can get under way. For the present, we’re hiding out until we can gather forces enough to free Tamanrasset.”

“Hiding out is right,” Cliff snorted. “I have a sneaking suspicion that not only will they never find us, but we’ll never find them again.”

Homer laughed. “As a matter of fact, we’re not so far right now from Silet where there’s a certain amount of water—if you dig for it—and a certain amount of the yellowish grass and woody shrubs that the bedouin depend on. With luck, we’ll find the Amenokal of the Tuareg there.”

“Amenokal?”

“Paramount chief of the Ahaggar Tuaregs.”

The dunes began to fall away and with the butt of his left hand Crawford struck the acceleration lever. He could make more time now when less of his attention was drawn to the ups and downs of erg travel.

Patches of thorny bush began to appear, and after a time a small herd of gazelle were flushed and hightailed their way over the horizon.

Isobel said, “Who is this Amenokal you mentioned?”

“These are the real Tuareg, the comparatively untouched. They’ve got three tribes, the Kel Rela, the Tégéhé Mellet and the Taitoq, each headed by a warrior clan which gives its name to the tribe as a whole. The chief of the Kel Rela clan is also chief of the Kel Rela tribe and automatically paramount chief, or Amenokal, of the whole confederation. His name is Melchizedek.”

“Do you think you can win him over?” Isobel said.

“He’s a smart old boy. I had some dealings with him over a year ago. Gave him a TV set in the way of a present, hoping he’d tune in on some of our Reunited Nations propaganda. He’s probably the most conservative of the Tuareg leaders.”

Her eyebrows went up. “And you expect to bring him around to the most liberal scheme to hit North Africa since Hannibal?”

He looked at her from the side of his eyes and grinned. “Remember Roosevelt, the American president?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, you’ve read about him. He came into office at a time when the country was going to economic pot by the minute. Some of the measures he and his so-called brain trust took were immediately hailed by his enemies as socialistic. In answer, Roosevelt told them that in times of social stress the true conservative is a liberal, since to preserve, you have to reform. If Roosevelt hadn’t done the things he did, back in the 1930s, you probably would have seen some real changes in the American socio-economic system. Roosevelt didn’t undermine the social system of the time, he preserved it.”

“Then, according to you, Roosevelt was a conservative,” she said mockingly.

Crawford laughed. “I’ll go even further,” he said. “When social changes are pending and for whatever reason are not brought about, then reaction is the inevitable alternative. At such a time then—when sweeping socio-economic change is called for—any reform measures proposed are concealed measures of reaction, since they tend to maintain the status quo.”

“Holly mackerel,” Cliff protested. “Accept that and Roosevelt was not only not a liberal, but a reactionary. Stop tearing down my childhood heroes.”

Isobel said, “Let’s get back to this Amenokal guy. You think he’s smart enough to see his only chance is in going along with …”

Homer Crawford pointed ahead and a little to the right. “We’ll soon find out. This is a favorite encampment of his. With luck, he’ll be there. If we can win him over, we’ve come a long way.”

“And if we can’t?” Isobel said, her eyebrows raised again.

“Then it’s unfortunate that there are only three of us,” Homer said simply, without looking at her.

There were possibly no more than a hundred Tuareg in all in the nomad encampment of goat leather tents when the solar-powered hovercraft drew up.

When the air-cushion vehicle stopped before the largest tent, Crawford said beneath his breath, “The Amenokal is here, all right. Cliff, watch your teguelmoust. If any of these people see more than your eyes, your standing has dropped to a contemptible zero.”

The husky Californian secured the lightweight cotton, combination veil and turban well up over his face. Earlier, Crawford had shown him how to wind the ten-foot long, indigo-blue cloth around the head and features.

Isobel, of course, was unveiled, Tuareg fashion, and wore baggy trousers of black cotton held in place with a drawstring of braided leather cord and a gandoura upper-garment consisting of a huge rectangle of cloth some seven to eight feet square and folded over on itself with the free corners sewed together, leaving bottom and most of both sides open. A V-shaped opening for her head and neck was cut out of a fold at the top, and a large patch had been sewed inside to make a pocket beneath her left breast. She wasn’t exactly a Parisian fashion plate.

Even as they stepped down from the hovercraft, immediately after it had drifted to rest on the ground, an elderly man came from the tent entrance.

He looked at them for a moment, then rested his eyes exclusively on Homer Crawford.

“La Bas, El Hassan,” he said through the cloth that covered his mouth.

Homer Crawford was taken aback but covered the fact. “There is no evil,” he repeated the traditional greeting. “But why do you name me El Hassan?”

A dozen veiled desert men, all with the Tuareg sword, several with modern rifles, had formed behind the Tuareg chief.

Melchizedek made a movement of hand to mouth, in a universal gesture of amusement. “Ah, El Hassan,” he said, “you forget you left me the magical instrument of the Roumi.”

Crawford was mystified, but he stood in silence. What the Tuareg paramount chief said now made considerable difference. As he recalled his former encounter with the Ahaggar leader, the other had been neither friendly nor antagonistic to the Reunited Nations team Crawford had headed in their role as itinerant desert smiths.

The Amenokal said, “Enter then my tent, El Hassan, and meet my chieftains. We would confer with you.”

The first obstacle was cleared. Subduing a sigh of relief, Homer Crawford turned to Cliff. “This, O Amenokal of all the Ahaggar, is Clif ben Jackson, my Vizier of Finance.”

The Amenokal bowed his head slightly, said, “La Bas.”

Cliff could go that far in the Tuareg tongue. He said, “La Bas.”

The Amenokal said, looking at Isobel, “I hear that in the lands of the Roumi women are permitted in the higher councils.”

Homer said steadily, “This I have also been amazed to hear. However, it is fitting that my followers remain here while El Hassan discusses matters of the highest importance with the Amenokal and his chieftains. This is the Sitt Izubahil, high in the councils of her people due to the great knowledge she has gained by attending the new schools which dispense rare wisdom, as all men know.”

The Amenokal courteously said, “La Bas,” but Isobel held her peace in decency amongst men of chieftain rank.

When Homer and the Tuaregs had disappeared into the tent, she said to Cliff, “Stick by the car, I’m going to circulate among the women. Women are women everywhere. I’ll pick up the gossip, possibly get something Homer will miss in there.”

A group of Tuareg women and children, the latter stark naked, had gathered to gape at the strangers. Isobel moved toward them and began immediately to break the ice.

Under his breath, Cliff muttered, “What a gal. Give her a few hours and she’ll form a Lady’s Aid branch, or a bridge club, and where else is El Hassan going to pick up so much inside information?”

The tent, which was of the highly considered mouflon skins, was mounted on a wooden frame which consisted of two uprights with a horizontal member laid across their tops. The tent covering was stretched over this framework with its back and sides pegged down and the front, which faced south, was left open. It was ten feet deep, fifteen feet wide and five feet high in the middle.

The men entered and filed to the right of the structure where sheepskins and rugs provided seating. The women and children, who abided ordinarily to the left side, had vanished for this gathering of the great.

They sat for a time and sipped at green tea, syrup sweet with mint and sugar, the tiny cups held under the teguelmoust so as not to obscenely reveal the mouth of the drinker.

Finally, Homer Crawford said, “You spoke of the magical instrument of the Roumi which I gave you as gift, O Amenokal, and named me El Hassan.”

Several of the Tuareg chuckled beneath their veils, but Crawford could read neither warmth nor antagonism in their amusement.

The elderly Melchizedek nodded. “At first we were bewildered, O El Hassan, but then my sister’s son, Guémama, fated perhaps one day to become chief of the Kel Rela and Amenokal of all the Ahaggar, recalled the tales told by the storytellers at the fire in the long evenings.”

Crawford looked at him politely.

Melchizedek’s laugh was gentle. “But each man has heard, in his time, O El Hassan, of the ancient Calif Haroud El Raschid of Baghdad.”

Crawford’s mind went into high gear as the story began to come back to him. From second into high gear, and he could have blessed these bedouin for handing him a piece of publicity gobbledygook worthy of Fifth Avenue’s top agency.

He held up a hand as though in amusement at being discovered. “Wallahi, O Amenokal, you have discovered my secret. For many months I have crossed the deserts disguised as a common Enaden smith to seek out all the people and to learn their wishes and their needs.”

“Even as Haroud el Raschid in the far past,” one of the subchiefs muttered in satisfaction, “used to disguise himself as a lowborn dragoman and wander the streets of Baghdad.”

“But how did you recognize me?” Homer said.

The Amenokal said in reproof, “But verily, your name is on all lips. The Roumi have branded you common criminal. You are to be seized on sight and great reward will be given he who delivers you to the authorities.” He spoke without inflection, and Crawford could read neither support nor animosity—nor greed for the reward offered by El Hassan’s enemies. He gathered the impression that the Tuareg chief was playing his cards close to his chest.

“And what else do they say?”

The elderly Melchizedek went on slowly, “They say that El Hassan is in truth a renegade citizen of a faraway Roumi land and that he attempts to build a great confederation in North Africa for his own gain.”

One of the others chuckled and said, “The Roumi on the magical instrument are indeed great liars as all can see.”

Homer looked at him questioningly.

The other said, laughing, “Who has ever heard of a black Roumi? And you, O El Hassan, are as black as a Bela.”

The Amenokal finished off the mystery of Crawford’s recognition. “Know, El Hassan, that whilst you were here before, one of the slaves that served you for pay shamelessly looked upon your face in the privacy of your tent. It was this slave who recognized your face when the Roumi presented it on the magic instrument, calling upon all men to see you and to brand you enemy.”

So that was it. The Reunited Nations, and probably all the rest, had used their radio and TV stations to broadcast a warning and offer a reward for Homer and his followers. Old Sven was losing no time. This wasn’t so good. A Tuareg owes allegiance to no one beyond clan, tribe and confederation. All others are outside the pale and any advantage, monetary or otherwise, to be gained by exploiting a stranger is well within desert mores.

He might as well bring it to the point. Crawford said evenly, “And I have entered your camp alone except for two followers. Your people are many. So why, O Amenokal, have you not seized me for the reward the Roumi offer?”

There was a moment of silence and Homer Crawford sensed that the subchieftains had leaned forward in anticipation, waiting for their leader’s words. Possibly they, too, could not understand.

The Tuareg leader finished his tea.

“Because, El Hassan, we yet have not heard the message which the Roumi are so anxious that you not be allowed to bring the men of the desert. The Roumi are great liars, and great thieves, as each man knows. In the memory of those still living, they have stolen of the bedouin and robbed him of land and wealth. So now we would hear of what you say, before we decide.”

“Spoken like a true Amenokal, a veritable Suliman ben Davud,” Homer said with a heartiness he could only partly feel. At least they were open to persuasion.

For a long moment he stared down at the rug upon which they sat, as though deep in contemplation.

“These words I speak will be truly difficult to hear and accept, O men of the veil,” he said at last. “For I speak of great change, and no man loves change in the way of his life.”

“Speak, El Hassan,” Melchizedek said flatly. “Great change is everywhere upon us, as each man knows, and none can tell how to maintain the ways of our fathers.”

“We can fight,” one of the younger men growled.

The Amenokal turned to him and grunted scorn. “And would you fight against the weapons of the djinn and afrit, O Guémama? Know that in my youth I was distant witness to the explosion of a great weapon which the accursed Franzawi discharged south of Reggan. Know that this single explosion, my sister’s son, could with ease have destroyed the total of all the tribesmen of the Ahaggar, had they been gathered.”

“And the Roumi have many such weapons,” Crawford added gently.

The eyes of the tribal headmen came back to him.

“As each man knows,” Crawford continued, “change is upon the world. No matter how strongly one wills to continue the traditions of his fathers, change is upon us all. And he who would press against the sandstorm, rather than drifting with it, lasts not long.”

One of the subchiefs growled, “We Tuareg love not change, El Hassan.”

Crawford turned to him. “That is why I and my viziers have spent long hours in ekhwan, in great council, devoted to the problems of the Tuareg and how they can best fit into the new Africa that everywhere awakes.”

They stirred in interest now. The Tuareg, once the Scourge of the Sahara, the Sons of Shaitan and the Forgotten of Allah, to the Arab, Teda, Moroccan and other fellow inhabitants of North Africa, were of recent decades developing a tribal complex. Robbed of their nomadic-bandit way of life by first the French Camel Corps and later by the efforts of the Reunited Nations, they were rapidly descending into a condition of poverty and defensive bewilderment. Not only were large numbers of former bedouin drifting to the area’s sedentary centers, an act beyond contempt within the memory of the elders, but the best elements of the clans were often deserting Tuareg country completely and defecting to the new industrial centers, the dam projects, the afforestation projects, the new oases irrigated with the solar-powered pumps.

“Speak, El Hassan,” the Amenokal ordered. And unconsciously, he, too, leaned forward, as did his subchiefs. The Ahaggar Tuareg were reaching for straws, unconsciously seeking shoulders upon which to lay their un-solvable problems.

“Let me, O chiefs of the Tuareg, tell of a once strong tribe of warriors and nomads who lived in the far country in which I was born,” Crawford said. The desert man loves a story, a parable, a tale of the strong men of yesteryear.

Melchizedek clapped his hands in summons and when a slave appeared, called for narghileh water pipes. When all had been supplied they relaxed, bits in mouths, and looked again at Homer Crawford.

“They were called,” he intoned, “the Cheyenne. The Northern Cheyenne, for they had a sister tribe to the South. And on all the plains of this great land, a land, verily, as large as all that over which the Tuareg confederations now roam, they were the greatest huntsmen, the greatest warriors. All feared them. They were the lords of all.”

“Ai,” breathed one of the older men. “As were the Tuareg before the coming of the cursed Franzawi and the other Nazrani.”

“But in time,” Crawford pursued, “came the new ways to the plains, and these men who lived largely by the chase began to see the lands fenced in for farmers, began to see large cities erected on what were once tribal areas, and to see the iron railroads of the new ways begin to spread out over the whole of the territory which once was roamed only by the Cheyennes and such nomadic tribes.”

“Ai,” a muffled mouth ejected.

Homer Crawford looked at the younger Targui, Gue-mama, the Amenokal’s nephew. “And so,” he said, “they fought.”

“Wallahi!” Guémama breathed.

Homer Crawford looked about the circle. “Never has tribe fought as did the Cheyenne. Never has the world seen such warriors, with the exception, of course, of the Ahaggar Tuareg. Never were such raids, never such bravery, never such heroic deeds as were performed by the warriors of the Cheyennes and their women, and their old people and their children. Over and over they defeated the cavalry and the infantry of the newcomers who would change the old ways and bring the new to the lands of the Cheyennes.”

The bedouin were staring in fascination, their water pipes forgotten.

“And then?” the Amenokal demanded.

“The new ways taught the enemy how to make guns, and artillery, and finally Gatling guns, which today we call machine guns. And once a brave warrior might prevail against a common man armed with the weapons of the new ways, and even twice he might. But the numbers of the followers of the new ways are as the sands of the Great Erg and in time bravery means nothing.”

“It is even so,” someone growled. “They are as the sands of the erg, and they have the weapons of the djinn, as each man knows.”

“And what happened in the end, O El Hassan?”

His eyes swept them all. “They perished,” Homer said. “Today in all the land where once the Cheyenne pursued the game there is but a handful of the tribe alive. And they have become nothing-people, no longer warriors, no longer nomads, and they are scorned by all for they are poor, poor, poor. Poor in mind and spirit and in property and they have not been able to adjust to the ways of the new world.”

Air went out of the lungs of the assembled Tuareg.

The Amenokal looked at him. “This is verily the truth, El Hassan?”

“My head upon it,” Crawford said.

“And why do you tell us of these Cheyenne, these great warriors of the plains of the land of your birth? The story fails to bring joy to hearts already heavy with the troubles of the Tuareg.”

It was time to play the joker.

Crawford said carefully, “Because there was no need, O Amenokal of all the Ahaggar, for the Cheyenne to disappear before the sandstorm of the future. They could have ridden before it and today occupy a position of honor and affluence in their former land.”

They stared at him.

“And give up the old ways?” Guémama demanded. “Become no longer nomads, no longer honorable warriors, but serfs, slaves, working with one’s hands upon the land and with the oil-dirty machines of the Roumi?”

The chiefs muttered angrily.

Crawford said hurriedly, “No! Never! In our great conferences, my viziers and I decided that the Tuareg could never so change. The Tuareg must die, as did the Northern Cheyenne, before he would become a city dweller, a worker of the land.”

“Bismillah!” someone muttered.

“Too often,” Crawford explained, “do the bringers of these things of the future, be they Roumi or others, fail to utilize the potential services of the people of the lands they oversweep.”

“I do not understand you, El Hassan,” Melchizedek grumbled. “There is no room for the Tuareg in this new world of bringing trees to the desert, of the great trucks which speed across the erg a score of times the pace of a hejin racing camel, of larger and ever larger oases with their great towns, their schools, their new industries. If the Tuareg remains Tuareg, he cannot fit into this new world; it destroys the old traditions, the old way which is the Tuareg way.”

Homer Crawford now turned on the pressure. His voice took on overtones of the positive, his personality seemed to reach out and seize them, and even his physical stature seemed to grow.

“Some indeed of the ways of the bedouin must go,” he entoned, “but the Tuareg will survive under my leadership. A people who have throve a millennium and more in the great wastes of the Sahara have strong survival characteristics and will blossom, not die, in my new world. Know, O Melchizedek, that it has been decided that the Ahaggar Tuareg will be the heart of my Desert Legion. In times of conflict, armed with the new arms, and riding the new vehicles, they will adapt their old methods of warfare to this new age. In times of peace they will patrol the new forests, watching for fire and other disaster, they will become herdsmen of the new herds and be the police and rescue forces of this wide area, as the Cheyennes of the olden times of the land of my birth could have become herdsmen and forest rangers and have performed similar tasks had they been shown the way.”

Homer Crawford let his eyes go from one of them to the next, and his personality continued to dominate them.

The Amenokal ran his thin, aged hand through the length of his white beard beneath his teguelmoust and contemplated this stranger come out of the ergs to lead his people to still greater changes than those they had thus far rebelled against.

Crawford realized that the Targui was divided in opinion and inwardly the American was in a cold sweat. But his voice registered only supreme confidence. “Under my banner, all North Africa will be welded into one. And all the products of the land will be available in profusion to my faithful followers. The finest wheat for cous cous from Algeria and Tunis, the finest dates and fruits from the oases to the north, the manufactured products of the factories of Dakar and Casablanca. For Africa has always been a poor land but will become a rich one with the new machines and techniques that I will bring.”

The Amenokal raised a hand to stem the tide of oratory. “And what do you ask of us now, El Hassan?”

Instead of to the older man, Crawford turned his eyes to the face of Guémama, the leader of the young clansmen. “Now my people are gathering to establish the new rule. Teda from the east, Chaambra from the north, Sudanese from the south, Nemadi, Moors and Rifs from the west. We rendezvous in ten days from now at Tamanrasset where the Arab Legion dogs have seized the city, as they wish to seize all the lands of the Sahara and Sudan for the corrupt Arab Union politicians.”

Crawford came to his feet. His voice took on an edge of command. “You will address your scouts and warriors and each will ride off on the swiftest camels at your command to raise the Tuareg tribes. And the clans of the Kel Rela will unite with the Taitoq and the Tégéhé Mellet in a great harka at this point and we will ride together to sweep the Arab Legion from the lands of El Hassan.”

Guémama was on his feet, too. “Bilhana!” he roared. “With joy!”

The others were arising in excitement, all but Melchizedek, who still stroked his gray-streaked beard beneath his teguelmoust. The Amenokal had seen much of desert war in his day and knew the horror of the new weapons possessed by the crack troops of the Arab Legion.

But his aged shoulders shrugged against the inevitable.

Crawford said, the ring of authority in his voice, “What does the Amenokal of all the Ahaggar say?” He had no intention of antagonizing the Tuareg chief by going over his head and directly to the people.

“Thou art El Hassan,” Melchizedek said, his voice low, “and undoubtedly it is fated that the Tuareg follow you, for verily there is no way else to go, as each man knows.”

“Wallahi!” Guémama crowed jubilantly.