Border, Breed Nor Birth

VII

“Hold it,” Homer Crawford roared, jumping to his own feet and grabbing the South African in his arms. He glared at the newcomer. “Kenny, you idiot, you’re lucky you don’t have a couple of holes in you.”

Kenny Ballalou, grinning widely, stared at Dave Moroka. “Jeepers,” he said, “you got that gun out fast. Don’t you ever stick ‘em up when somebody has the drop on you?”

Dave Moroka relaxed, the sidearm dropping back into its holster. Homer Crawford released him, and the South African ran a hand over his mouth and shook his head ruefully at Kenny.

Isobel and Cliff crowded up, the one to kiss Kenny happily, the other to pound him on the back.

Homer made introductions to Dave Moroka and the Peters brothers.

“I’ve told you about Kenny,” he wound it up. “I sent him over to the west to raise a harka of Nemadi to help in taking Tamanrasset.” He joined Cliff Jackson in giving the smaller man an affectionate blow on the shoulder. “What luck did you have, Kenny?”

Kenny Ballalou rubbed himself ruefully. “If you two will stop beating, I’ll tell you. I didn’t recruit a single Nemadi.”

Homer Crawford looked at him.

Kenny said to the tent at large. “Anybody got a drink around here? Good grief, have I been covering ground.”

Isobel bustled off to a corner where she’d amassed most of their remaining European-type supplies, but she kept her attention on him.

Dave Moroka said, his voice unbelieving, “You mean you haven’t brought any assistance at all?”

Kenny grinned around at them. “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t recruit any of the Nemadi. I never even got as far as their territory.”

Homer Crawford sank back onto the small crate he’d been using as a chair before Kenny’s precipitate entrance. “O.K.,” he said, “stop dramatizing and let us know what happened.”

Kenny spread his hands in a sweeping gesture. “The country’s alive from here to Bidon Cinq and south to the Niger. Bourem and Gao have gone over to El Hassan and a column of followers was descending on Niamey. They should be there by now. I never got as far as Nemadi country. I could have recruited ten thousand fighting men, but I didn’t know what we’d do with them in this country. So I weeded through everybody who volunteered and took only veterans. Men who’d formerly been in the French forces, or British, or whatever. Louis Wallington and his team were in Bourem when I got there and…”

“Who is Louis Wallington?” Jack Peters said.

Homer looked over at the Peters brothers and Dave Moroka. “Head of a six-man Sahara Development Project team like the one I used to head.” His eyes went back to Kenny. “What about Louis?”

“He’s come in with us. Didn’t know how to get in touch, so he was working on his own. And Pierre Dupaine. Remember him, the fellow from Guadeloupe in the French West Indies, used to be an operative of the African Affairs sector of the French Community? Well, he and a half-dozen of his colleagues have come in and were leading an expedition on Timbuktu. But Timbuktu had already joined up too, before they got there.”

“Wow,” Homer said. “It’s really spreading.”

Cliff said, “Why isn’t all this on the radio?”

Isobel had brought Kenny a couple of ounces of cognac from their meager supply. He knocked it back thankfully.

Kenny said to Cliff, “Things are moving too fast, and communications have gone to pot.” He looked at Homer. “Have any of these journalists found you yet?”

“What journalists?”

Kenny laughed. “You’ll find out. Half the newspapers, magazines, newsreels and TV outfits in the world are sending every man they can release into this area. They’re going batty trying to find El Hassan. Man, do you realize the extent of the country your followers now dominate?”

Homer said blankly, “I hadn’t thought of it. Besides, most of what you’ve been saying is news to us here. We’ve been keeping on the prod.”

Kenny grinned widely. “Well, the nearest I can figure it, El Hassan is ruler of an area about the size of Mexico. At least it was yesterday. By today, you can probably tack on Texas.”

Jimmy Peters, serious-faced as usual, said, “Things are moving so fast, we’re going to have to run to keep ahead of El Hassan’s followers. One thing, Homer, we’re going to have to have a press secretary.”

“Elmer Allen was going to handle that, but he’s still up north,” Isobel said.

“I’ll do it. Used to be a newspaperman, when I was younger,” Dave Moroka said quickly.

Isobel frowned and began to say something, but Homer said, “Great, you handle that, Dave.” Then to Kenny: “Where’re your men and how well are they armed?”

“Well, that’s one trouble,” Kenny said unhappily. “We requisitioned motor transport from some of the Sahara Afforestation Project oases down around Tessalit. In fact, Ralph Sandell, their chief mucky-muck in those parts, has come over to us. But we haven’t got much in the way of shooting irons.”

Homer Crawford closed his eyes wearily. “What it boils down to, still, is that a hundred of those Arab Legionnaires, with their armor, could finish us all off in ten minutes if it came to open battle.”

El Hassan continued moving his headquarters, usually daily, but he eluded the journalists only another twelve hours. Then they were upon the mobile camp like locusts.

And David Moroka took over with a calm efficiency that impressed all. In the first place, he explained, El Hassan was much too busy to handle the press except for one conference a week. In the second place, he spoke only Esperanto to foreigners. Meanwhile, he, Dave Moroka, would handle all their questions and make arrangements for suitable photographs and for the TV and newsreel boys to trundle their equipment as near the front lines as possible. And, meanwhile, James and John Peters of El Hassan’s staff had prepared press releases covering the El Hassan movement and its program.

Homer, to the extent possible, was isolated from the new elements descending upon his encampment. Attempting anything else would have been out of the question. At this point, he was getting approximately four hours of sleep a night.

Kenny Ballalou was continually coming and going in a mad attempt to handle the logistics of supplying several thousand men in a desert area all but devoid of either water or graze, not to speak of food, petroleum products and ammunition.

Isobel and Cliff were thrown into the positions of combination secretaries, ministers of finance, assistant bodyguards, and all else that nobody else seemed to handle, including making coffee.

It was Isobel who approached a subject which had long worried her, as they drove across country, the only occupants of one of the original hover-lorries, during a camp move.

She said hesitantly, “Homer, is it a good idea to give Dave such a free hand with the press? You know, there are some fifty or so of them around now and they must be influencing the TV, radio, magazines and newspapers of the world.”

“He seems to know more about it than any of the rest of us,” Homer said, his eyes on the all but sand-obliterated way. “We’re going to have to move more of the men south. We simply haven’t got water enough for them. There’d be enough in Tamanrasset, but not out here. Make a note to cover this with Kenny. I wonder where Bey is, and Elmer.”

Isobel made a note. She said, “Yes, but the trouble is, he’s a comparative newcomer. Are you sure he’s in complete accord with the original plan, Homer? Does the El Hassan dream mean the same to him as it does to you, and… well, me?”

He shot her an impatient glance, even as he hit the lift lever to raise them over a small dune. “You and Dave don’t hit it off very well. He’s a good man, so far as I can see.”

Her delicate forehead wrinkled and her pixie face showed puzzlement. “I don’t know why. I get along with most people, Homer.”

He patted her hand. “You can’t please everybody, Isobel. Listen, something’s got to be done about this king-size mob of camp followers we’ve got. Did you know Common Europe sent in a delegation this morning?”

“Delegation? Common Europe?”

“Yeah. Haven’t had time to discuss it with you. They found us just before we raised camp. Evidently the British Commonwealth and possibly the Soviet Complex —some Chinese, I think—are also trying to locate us. Half of these people are without their own equipment and supplies, but that’s not what worries me right now. We used to be able to camouflage our headquarters camp. Dig into the desert and avoid the aircraft. But if a group of bungling Common Market diplomats can locate us, what’s to keep the Arab Legion from doing it and blessing us with a stick of neopalm bombs?”

Isobel said, “Look, before we leave Dave. Did you know he was confiscating all radio equipment brought into our camp by the newsmen and whoever else?”

Homer frowned. “Well, why?”

“Espionage, Dave says. He’s afraid some of these characters might be in with the Arab Union and inform on us.”

“Well, that makes some sense,” Homer nodded.

“Does it?” Isobel grumbled.

He shot an irritated glance at her again and said impatiently, “Can’t the poor guy do anything right?”

“My woman’s intuition is working,” Isobel growled.

Dave Moroka came into headquarters tent without introduction. He was one of the half-dozen who had permission for this. He had a sheaf of papers in his left hand and was frowning unhappily.

“What’s the crisis?” Homer said.

“Scouts coming up say your pal Bey-ag-Akhamouk is on the way. Evidently, with a big harka of Teda from the Sudan.”

“Great.” Homer crowed. “Now we’ll get going.”

“Ha!” Dave said. “From what we hear, a good many are camel mounted. How are we going to feed them? Already some of the Songhai Kenny brought up from the south have drifted away, unhappy about supplies.”

“Bey’s a top man,” Homer told him. “The best. He’ll have some ideas on our tactics. Meanwhile, we can turn over most of his men to one of the new recruits and head them down to take Fort Lamy. With Fort Lamy and Lake Chad in our hands we’ll control a chunk of Africa so big everybody else will start wondering why they shouldn’t jump on the bandwagon while the going is good.”

Dave said, “Well, that brings up something else, Homer. These new recruits. In the past couple of days, forty or fifty men who used to be connected with African programs sponsored by everybody from the Reunited Nations to this gobbldygook outfit Cliff and Isobel once worked for, the AFAA, have come over to El Hassan. The number will probably double by tomorrow, and triple the next day.”

“Fine,” Homer said. “What’s wrong with that? These are the people that will really count in the long run.”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, within reason. But we’re going to have to start becoming selective, Homer. We’ve got to watch what jobs we let these people have, how much responsibility we give them.”

Homer Crawford was frowning at him. “How do you mean?”

“See here,” the wiry South African said plaintively, “when El Hassan started off there were only a half-dozen or so who had the dream, as you call it. O.K. You could trust any one of them. Bey, Kenny, Elmer, Cliff, this Jake Armstrong that you’ve sent to New York, Rex Donaldson, then Jimmy and Jack Peters and myself. We all came in when the going was rough, if not impossible. But now things are different. It looks as though El Hassan might actually win.”

“So?” Homer didn’t get it.

“So from now on, you’re going to have an infiltration of cloak-and-dagger lads from every outfit with an interest in North Africa. Potential traitors, potential assassins, subversives and what not.”

Homer was scowling at him. “Confound it, what do you suggest? That these Johnny-Come-Latelies be second-class citizens?”

“Not exactly that, but this isn’t funny. We’ve got to screen them. The trouble with this movement is that it’s a one-man deal, and has to be. The average African is either a barbarian or an actual savage, one ethnic degree lower. He wants a hero symbol to follow. O.K., you’re it. But remember both Moctezuma and Atahualpa. Their socio-economic systems pyramided up to them. The Spanish conquistadores, being old hands at sophisticated European-type intrigue, quickly sized up the situation. They kidnaped the hero symbol, the big cheese, and later killed him. And the Inca and the Aztec cultures collapsed.”

Homer was scowling at him unhappily.

Dave summed it up. “All we need is one fuzzy-minded commie from the Soviet Complex, or one super-dooper democrat who thinks that El Hassan stands in the way of freedom, whatever that is, and bingo a couple of bullets in your tummy and the El Hassan movement folds its tents like the Arabs and takes a powder, as the old expression goes.”

“You have your point,” Homer Crawford admitted. “Follow through, Dave. Figure out some screening program.”

Cliff came in. “Hey, Homer. Guess what old Jake has done.”

“Jake Armstrong?”

“He’s swung the Africa for Africans Association in New York over to us. They’ve raised a million bucks. What’ll we do with it? How can he get anything to us?”

“We’ll have him plow it back into publicity and further fund-raising campaigns,” Homer said. “That’s the way it’s done. You raise some money for some cause and then spend it all on a bigger campaign to raise still more money, and what you get from that one you plow into a still bigger campaign.”

Cliff said, “Don’t you ever get anything out of it?”

Dave and Homer both laughed.

Cliff said, “I’ve got some still better news.”

“Good news we can use,” Homer said.

The big Californian looked at him in pretended awe. “A poet, no less,” he said.

“Shut up,” Homer said. “What’s the news?”

The fact of the matter was, he was becoming increasingly impatient of the continual banter expected of him by Cliff and even the others. As original members of the team, they expected an intimacy that he was finding it increasingly difficult to deliver. Among other things, he wished that Cliff, in particular, would mind his attitude when such followers as Guémama were present. The El Hassan posture could be maintained only in never-to-be-compromised dignity.

Bey had once compared him to Alexander, to Homer’s amusement at the time. But now he was beginning to sympathize with the position the Macedonian leader had found himself in, betwixt the King-God conscious Persians, and the rough-and-ready Companions who formed his bodyguard and crack cavalry units. A King-God simply didn’t banter with his subordinates, not even his blood-kin.

Cliff scowled at him now, at the sharpness of Homer’s words, but he made his report.

“Our old pal, Sven Zetterberg. He’s gone out on a limb. Because of the great danger of this so-far localized fight spreading into world-wide conflict—says old Sven —the Reunited Nations will not tolerate the combat going into the air. He says that if either El Hassan or the Arab Legion resort to use of aircraft, the Reunited Nations will send in its air fleet.”

“Wow,” Homer said. “All the aircraft we’ve got are a few slow-moving heliocopters that Kenny brought up with him.”

Dave Moroka snapped his fingers in a gesture of elation. “That means Zetterberg is throwing his weight to our side.”

Homer was on his feet. “Send for Kenny and Guémama and send a heliocopter down to pick up Bey and rush him here. He shouldn’t be more than a day’s march away. I wonder what Elmer is up to. No word at all from him. At any rate, we want an immediate council of war. With Arab Legion air cover eliminated, we can move in.”

Cliff said sourly, “It’s still largely rifles against armored cars, tanks, mobile artillery and even flame throwers.”

All the old hands were present. They stood about a map table, Homer and Bey-ag-Akhamouk at one end, the rest clustered about. Isobel sat in a chair to the rear, stenographer’s pad on her knees.

Bey was clipping out suggestions.

“We have them now. Already our better trained men are heading up for Temassinine to the north and Fort Charlet to the east. We’ll lose men but we’ll knock out every water hole between here and Libya. We’ll cut every road, blow what few bridges there are.”

Jack Peters said worriedly, “But the important thing is Tamanrasset. What good …”

“We’re cutting their supply line,” Bey told him. “Can’t you see? Colonel Ibrahim and his motorized column will be isolated in Tamanrasset. They won’t be able to get supplies through without an air lift and Sven Zetterberg’s ultimatum kills that possibility. They’re blocked off.”

Jimmy Peters was as confused as his brother. “So what? to use the Americanism. They have both food and water in abundance. They can hold out indefinitely. Meanwhile, our forces are undisciplined irregulars. We gain a thousand recruits a day. They come galloping in on camelback or in beat-up old vehicles, firing their hunting rifles into the air. But we also lose a thousand a day. They get bored, or hungry, and decide to go back to their flocks, or their jobs on the new Sahara projects. At any rate, they drift off again. It looks to me that, if Colonel Ibrahim can hold out another week or so, our forces might melt away—all except the couple of hundred or so European and American-educated followers. And, cut down to that number, they’ll eliminate us in no time flat.”

Homer Crawford was eyeing him in humor. “You’re no fighting man, Peters. Tell me, what is the single most fearsome enemy of an ultra-mechanized soldier with the latest in military equipment and super-firepower weapons?”

Jimmy Peters was blank. “I suppose a similarly armed opponent.”

Homer smiled at him. “Rather, a man with a knife.”

The expressions of the Peters brothers showed resentment. “We weren’t jesting.”

“Neither was I,” Homer rapped. He looked around at the rest, including Bey and Kenny. “What happens to a modern mechanized army when it runs out of gasoline? What happens to a water-cooled machine gun when there is no water? What use is a howitzer when the target is a single man in ten acres of cover? Gentlemen, have any of you ever studied the tactics of Abd-el-Krim or, more recently still, Tito? Bey, I assume you have.”

He had their attention.

“During the Second War,” Homer continued, “this Yugoslavian Tito tied up two Nazi army corps with a handful of partisans—guerrillas. The most modern army in the world, the German Panzers, tried to ferret him out for five years, and couldn’t. There are other examples. The Chinese operating against the Japs in the same war. Or one of the classic examples is Abd-el-Krim destroying two different Spanish armies in the Moroccan Rif in the 1920s. His barefoot men, armed with rifles, took on Primo de Rivera’s modernized Spanish armies and trounced them.”

Bey said, “Homer’s right. Our only tactics are guerrilla ones.”

Homer Crawford looked at Guémama, who had been standing in the background, unfamiliar with the language these others spoke, but holding his dignity. Crawford said, diplomatically, “And what sayest thou, O chieftain of the Tuareg?”

Guémama was gratified at the attention. He said in Tamaheq, “As all men know, O El Hassan, we now outnumber by thrice the Arab giaours, may they burn in Gehennum. Therefore, let us rush in and kill them all.”

Bey shuddered.

Homer Crawford nodded seriously. “Ai, Guémama, that would be the valorous way of the Tuareg. But the heart of El Hassan forbids him to sacrifice the lives of his people. Consequently, we shall use the tactics of the desert jackal. Instruct those of your people who are most cunning to infiltrate Tamanrasset in the night. Let them not carry arms for they may well be searched by the Arab meleccha.”

The Tuareg chieftain was intrigued. “And what shall they do in Tamanrasset, El Hassan? Suddenly seize arms, one night, and rise up in wrath against the Arab dogs and kill them all?”

Homer was shaking his head. “They will address themselves to the Haratin serfs and spread to them the message of El Hassan. They will be told that in the world of El Hassan each man shall be free to seek his own destiny to the extent his mind and abilities allow. And no man shall be the less because he was born a serf, and no man the more because he was born to wealth or power in the old days.”

“Aiii,” Guémama all but moaned. “But such a message …”

“Is the message of El Hassan, as all men know,” Homer Crawford said flatly. He turned to Kenny Ballalou. “Kenny, take over this angle. We want as many propagandists in that town as possible. It’s already choked with refugees, most of them not knowing what they’re fleeing. We might get recruits there, too. But mostly we want to appeal to the sedentary natives in town. They’ve got to get the dreams, too. Promise them schools, land… I don’t have to tell you.”

“Right,” Kenny said.

Isobel said, “Maybe I ought to get in on this, too. The women might do a better job than men on this slant. It’s going to take a lot to get a Tuareg bedouin to sink to talking to a Haratin on an equal basis.”

Bey and Homer had bent back over the maps, but before they could get back into the details of guerrilla warfare against Colonel Ibrahim and his legionnaires, they were halted by a controversy from without.

“What now?” Homer growled. “This camp is getting to be like a three-ring circus.”

The entrance flap was pushed aside and three of Bey’s Sudanese tribesmen half escorted, half pushed a newcomer front and center.

It was Fredric Ostrander, natty as usual, but now in khaki desert wear. He was obviously in a rage at the three rifle-carrying nomads who had him in charge.

Bey spoke to the Teda warriors in their own tongue. Then to Homer in Tamaheq, which he assumed the C.I.A. man didn’t know: “They picked him up in the desert in a hover-jeep. He was evidently looking for our camp.” He dismissed the three bedouin with a gesture.

Ostrander was outraged. He snapped at Homer Crawford, “I demand an explanation of this cavalier attack upon…”

His face expressionless, Homer held up a hand to quiet the smaller man. He looked at Jack Peters and raised his eyebrows. “Kion li la fremdul diras?”

Jack, serious as ever, replied in Esperanto, then turned to the American C.I.A. man and said, “El Hassan has requested that I translate for him. He speaks only the official language of North Africa to foreign representatives. Undoubtedly, sir, you have proper credentials?”

Had Fredric Ostrander been of lighter complexion, his color would have undoubtedly gone dark red.

“Look here, Crawford,” he snapped. “I’m in no mood for nonsense. The State Department has sent me to your headquarters to make another attempt to bring some sense home to you. As an American citizen, owing alliance…”

Homer Crawford spoke in Esperanto to Jack Peters who nodded seriously and said to Ostrander, “El Hassan informs you he owes alliance only to the people of North Africa whose chosen leader he is.”

Ostrander knew they were kidding him, but at the same time the stand being taken was actuality. He glared at the Americans present whom he knew, Bey, Isobel, Cliff, and Kenny. He snapped, “Very well, but I repeat what I told you when last we met. The State Department of the United States of the Americas will not stand idly by and see this area taken over by elements dominated by red subversives.”

“Holy mackerel,” Cliff growled, “are you still tooting that horn?”

Dave Moroka said sarcastically, “It’s an old wheeze. The definition of a red subversive is anybody who doesn’t see eye-to-eye with the United States. They’ve been pulling the gag for decades. Remember Guatemala and Cuba? Do anything that interferes with American business abroad and the cry goes up, he’s an enemy of the free world!”

Ostrander spun on him, his eyes narrowing.

Dave laughed. “The definition of members of the free world, of course, being anybody who follows the American line. Anybody is free, Spanish and Portuguese dictators, absolute monarchs in Arabia, Chinese warlords, if they’re on the American side.”

Ostrander snapped, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Moroka made a sweeping bow. “I’m afraid we don’t move in the same circles. I’ve spent possibly a third of my life in prison…”

“Undoubtedly,” Ostrander snorted.

“…put there by people such as yourself—in various countries—because I was fighting for my own version of freedom.”

“Communism, undoubtedly!”

Moroka said softly, “I’m a South African, sir. Both my parents were killed in the 1960 riots. It seems that they had dark skins—even as you and I—and weren’t able to see why that should keep them from freedom.”

Fredric Ostrander spun back to Homer Crawford. “I’m not here to quibble with self-confessed malcontents. I’ve been sent to represent the State Department, to report to them, and, above all, to do what I can to prevent your activities from redounding to the further advantage of the Soviet Complex. I assume you can assign me quarters.”

Straight-faced, Jack Peters translated this into Esperanto, and, straight-faced, Homer answered in the same language.

Jack turned back to the impatient C.I.A. man. “El Hassan welcomes the representative of the United States of the Americas and hopes this will be the first step toward diplomatic recognition between North Africa and your great country. He has instructed me to find you quarters, which, possibly you may have to share with delegations from Common Europe or”—Peters cleared his throat—“the Soviet Complex. He further suggests that it might be well, if you maintain communications with your superiors, to have sent to you books on Esperanto, the official language of North Africa.”

Dave Moroka put in, “By the way, we’ll have to go through your things. We can’t allow any radio communication from El Hassan’s camp, except through official El Hassan channels—for obvious military reasons.”

Ostrander snorted, stared indignantly at Homer again, spun on his heel and stalked from the tent. Jack Peters followed him but not before tipping an uncharacteristic wink at Homer.

When they were gone, Homer sighed and looked at Dave Moroka. “That reminds me, how are our other delegations coming?”

The South African grinned ruefully. “They’re playing it cool. Waiting to see what way to jump. Give El Hassan some real success, and they’ll probably jump at the chance to be first to recognize him. Especially these Soviet Complex opportunists. They’d just love to suck you into their camp.”

Isobel looked at him. “After that tearing down you gave poor Ostrander about the United States, now you rip into the Soviet Complex. Just where do you stand, Dave?”

Dave shrugged her question off, as though there were more important things. “I’m an El Hassan man,” he said. “Let those two overgrown powers handle their own troubles.”

Jimmy Peters spoke up for the first time since Ostrander entered the tent. “You know,” he said, seriously, “I’m beginning to wonder if the world can afford nationalistic patriotism. Haven’t we gone too far along the road to think of ourselves any longer as Americans, or Russians, or French, or West Indians, or whatever? Hasn’t the human race grown up beyond that point?”

Kenny said mockingly, “What! Aren’t you proud of being a West Indian, and a loyal subject of Her Majesty?”

Peters ignored his tone. “Why should I be proud of my country? It was an accident of birth with which I had nothing to do, that made me a West Indian, rather than a Canadian, a Chinese, a Norwegian, or whatever. Intelligently, I should be proud only of things that I, myself, have accomplished.”

Bey said, “If we can stop waxing philosophic for a while and get back to how most efficiently to clobber these Arabs…”

The Hindu entered Kirill Menzhinsky’s small office behind the Indian souvenir shop in the Tangier Zocco Chico and said, “The operative Anton is on the receiver.”

The agent superior of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya for North Africa looked up from his desk and grunted acceptance of the message. He came to his feet and followed the other into a back room and took his place before a mouthpiece and screen.

The man whose party name was Anton nodded a greeting.

Kirill Menzhinsky said, “It’s about time I heard from you, Anton.”

“Yes. But the situation has been such that it was not easy to report.”

“And now?”

“Briefly, I am at El Hassan’s headquarters. You were correct. He is in actuality Homer Crawford. The others you mentioned are also with him, including the traitor Isobel Cunningham.”

The Soviet Complex’s agent allowed his eyebrows to rise.

Anton said flatly, “The girl has evidently renounced the party and now holds high rank in Crawford’s inner circle.”

“And you?”

“I am rapidly becoming his right-hand man. I am his press secretary and in charge of communications. Early in our acquaintanceship I was able to engineer an attempted assassination. I was able to, ah, save the life of El Hassan.”

The Russian’s eyes narrowed. “The assassins? Is there any chance that they might reveal your little trick?”

Anton grimaced. “I am not a fool, Kirill. Both of them were killed in the assassination attempt. El Hassan was most grateful.”

“I see. And how would you sum up the present situation?”

“This area is swinging rapidly to El Hassan, but any sort of defeat and undoubtedly his followers would melt away. The bedouin are too volatile. Before he ever makes any real headway he will have to take the major commercial and industrial cities such as Dakar, Kano, Lagos, Accra, Freetown, Khartoum, and eventually, of course, Cairo, Casablanca, Algiers and so forth.”

“And our friend El Hassan leans not at all in our direction?”

The man the Party called Anton shook his head. “He leans in no direction, except that which will unite and modernize North Africa. Neither do his immediate followers. They’re a well-knit group and it seems unlikely that I could pry any of them away from him in case it became desirable.”

“I see,” Kirill Menzhinsky muttered. “I understand that a delegation from Moscow has arrived in El Hassan’s camp. Have you contacted them?”

“Certainly not. My orders were to rise in the El Hassan hierarchy and await further orders. None of my current, ah, colleagues have any suggestion that I am identified with the Party. Which reminds me, an American C.I.A. man, Fredric Ostrander, has shown up. The fool seems to be under the impression that El Hassan is a Party tool.”

“I know this Ostrander. Don’t underestimate him, Anton. He’s an extremely competent operative in the clutch, as the Americans call it.”

“Perhaps. But nevertheless, there is no indication that the El Hassan movement leans either to East or West, nor do I see any signs that it is apt to in the future.”

The Russian was scowling. “I see. Then perhaps it will be necessary for us to do something to topple our El Hassan before he becomes much stronger, and to find another to unite North Africa.”

Anton frowned in his turn. “I don’t know. This man Crawford—and his followers, for that matter—are motivated by high ideals. As you have said, North Africa is not ready for our socio-economic system. Men of the caliber of Homer Crawford could bring it into the modern age perhaps more quickly than another.”

Menzhinsky chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, Anton. Such matters of policy will be decided by others than you, or even me. Keep in touch with me more often, in the future, Anton.”

“Yes, Comrade.” His face faded from the screen.

Tamanrasset lies at an altitude of approximately 4,600 feet, about average for the Ahaggar plateau. Around it, such peaks as the Tahat reach 9,600 feet above sea level. The country is rugged, jagged, bleak beyond belief. With the possible exception of Southern Afghanistan in the Khyber area, there is no place in the world more suited for guerrilla warfare and less suited for the proper utilization of modern armor, particularly when the latter is forced to work without air cover.

Homer Crawford, equipped with an old-style telescope, was spread-eagled atop a rock outcropping, his only companion Isobel Cunningham. Directly before him, possibly two miles distant, was the desert city of Tamanrasset, and to the right, a kilometer or so, Amsel, where palatable water was to be found at eighteen meters depth.

“Our friend the colonel is up to something,” he grumbled.

She had a pair of binoculars, of considerably less power than his glass.

“It looks as though Guémama’s boys are on the run,” she said.

“As per orders. The primary theory of partisan warfare is not to get killed. The guerrilla never stands and fights. If the regular forces he opposes can bring him to bay, they’ve got him.” He interrupted himself to clip out, “Look at that tank, darling! There on the left!”

Isobel tightened and looked at him quickly from the side of her eyes. No. He’d said it inadvertently, his mind concentrated on the fighting men below. She had often wondered where she stood with Homer Crawford the man, as opposed to El Hassan the idealist. The tip of her tongue licked the side of her mouth as she surreptitiously took him in. But Crawford the man would have to wait; there was no time, no time.

Isobel swung her glasses. “The one starting to go in a circle? There, it stopped.”

“One of the snipers got its commander,” Homer said. “You can’t fight a tank without the commander’s head being up through the hatch. That’s a popular fallacy. You can’t see well enough to fight your tank unless you’ve got your head up. And that’s suicide when you’re against guerrillas. The colonel ought to send his infantry out first.”

Isobel said, “What did you mean when you said that he’s up to something?”

Homer’s eye was still glued to the eyepiece of his glass. “He’s leaving his entrenchments and sending his vehicles out to capture our… our strong points.”

“You mean our water, don’t you?”

Bey came snaking up to them on his belly. He came abreast of Homer and brought forth his own binoculars. He watched for a moment and then muttered a curse under his breath.

“Guémama better start pulling back those men more quickly,” he said.

“He will. He’s a good man,” Homer told him. “What’s up?”

“Evidently Colonel Ibrahim has decided to come out of retirement. He’s sent small motorized elements to Effok, In Fedjeg, Otoul and even to Tahifet.”

“And?”

“And has taken them all, of course. Our men fall back, fighting a stubborn rear-guard action, taking as few casualties as possible.”

“I don’t get it,” Homer bit out. “He’s using up his fuel and ammunition and losing more men than we are. Certainly he can’t figure, with the thousand odd troops he has, to be able to take and hold enough of the oases and water holes in this vicinity to push us out completely.”

Bey said, “What worries me is the possibility that he knows something we don’t. That he’s figuring on being relieved or has a new source of fuel, ammunition and men on tap.”

“The roads are cut. Our men hold every source of water from here to Libya, and the Reunited Nations has put thumbs down on aircraft, which eliminates an air lift.”

“Yeah,” Bey said, unhappily.

That evening, following the day’s last meal, Cliff came into the headquarters tent, grinning broadly. “Hey, guess what we’ve liberated.”

“A bottle of Scotch?” Kenny said hopefully.

“A king-size portable radio transmitter. Ralph Sandell knew about it. The Sahara Afforestation Project people were going to use it to propagandize the tribesmen into coming in and taking jobs in the new oases.”

Dave Moroka, who’d been censoring press releases, shook his head. “That’s why we need an El Hassan in this country,” he complained. “They put a couple of million dollars into a radio transmitter, never asking themselves how many of the bedouin own radios.”

Jack Peters said, “Wait a moment, you chaps. Didn’t Bey capture a couple of Arab Legion radio technicians today?”

“They defected to us,” Homer Crawford said, looking up from an improvised desk where he was poring over some supply papers with Isobel. “What did you have in mind, Jack?”

“There are radios in Tamanrasset. In fact, there’s probably a radio in every one of those military vehicles of Ibrahim’s. Why can’t we blanket these Arab Union chaps with El Hassan propaganda? Quite a few of them are from Libya, Tunisia and Egypt. In short, they’re Africans and susceptible to El Hassan’s dream.”

“Good man. Take over the details, Jack,” Homer said. He went back to his work with Isobel.

Jimmy Peters entered with some papers in hand. He said, seriously, “The temperature is rising in the Reunited Nations—and everywhere else, for that matter. Damascus and Cairo have been getting increasingly belligerent. Homer, it looks as though the Arab Union is getting ready to go out on a limb. Weeks have passed since Colonel Ibrahim first took Tamanrasset, and the Reunited Nations, the United States, the Soviet Complex and all others interested in North Africa have failed to do anything. Everybody, evidently, afraid of precipitating something that couldn’t be ended.”

All eyes went to Homer Crawford, who ran a black hand back over his hair in weariness. “I know,” he said. “Something is about to blow. Dave has sent some of his best men into Tamanrasset to pick up gossip in the souks. Morale was dragging bottom among the legionnaires just a couple of days ago. Now they seem to have a new lease.”

“In spite of the sabotage our people have been committing?” Isobel said.

“That’s falling off somewhat,” Cliff said. “At first our more enthusiastic followers were able to pull everything from heaving Molotov cocktails into tanks to pouring sugar in hover-jeep gas tanks, but the legionnaires have both smartened up and gotten very tough.”

“Good,” Dave Moroka said now.

They looked at him.

“Atrocities,” he said. “In order to guard against sabotage, the legionnaires will be taking measures that will antagonize the people in Tamanrasset. They’ll shoot a couple of teenage kids, or something, then they’ll have a city-wide mess on their hands.”

Isobel said unhappily, “It seems a nasty way to win a war.”

Dave grunted his contempt of her opinion. “There is no way of winning a war other than a nasty one.”

Bey came in, yawning hugely. His energy was inconceivable to the others. So far as was known, he hadn’t slept, other than sitting erect in a moving vehicle, for the past four days. He said to Homer, “Fred Ostrander has been bending my ear for the past hour or so. Do you want to talk to him?”

“About what?” Homer said.

“I don’t know. He has a lot of questions. I think he’s beginning to suspect—just suspect, understand—that possibly the whole bunch of us aren’t receiving our daily instructions from either Moscow or Peking.”

Dave and Cliff both laughed.

Homer sighed and said, “Show him in. He’s the only thing we have in the way of a contact with the United States of the Americas and sooner or later we’re going to have to make our peace with both them and the Soviet Complex. In fact, what we’re probably going to have to do is play one against the other, getting grants, loans, economic assistance…”

“Technicians, teachers, arms,” Bey continued the list.

Kenny Ballalou looked at him and snorted. “Arms! If there’s anything this part of the world doesn’t need it’s more arms. In fact, that goes for the rest of the world, too. In the old days when the great nations were first beginning to attempt to line up the neutrals, they sent aid to such countries by the billions—and most of it in arms. How ridiculous can you get? Putting arms in the hands of most of the governments of that time was like handing a loaded pistol to an idiot.”

Bey hung his head in mock humility. “I bow before your wisdom,” he said. He left the room to get Ostrander.

The C.I.A. man had lost a fraction of his belligerence, but none of his arrogance and natty appearance. Homer wondered vaguely how the other managed to remain so spruce in the inadequate desert camp.

Jack Peters said, “What did you wish to ask El Hassan? I will translate.”

“Never mind that, Jack,” Homer said. “We’ll get tougher about using our official language when we’ve gone a little further in building our new government.” He said to Ostrander, “What can I do for you? Obviously, my time is limited.”

Fredric Ostrander said, “I’ve been gathering material for reports to my superiors. I’ve been doing a good deal of questioning, and, frankly, even prying around.”

Cliff grunted.

Ostrander went on. “I’ve also read the various press releases, manifestoes and so forth that your assistants have been compiling.”

“We know,” Homer said. “We haven’t put any obstacles in your way. We haven’t any particular secrets, Mr. Ostrander.”

“You disguise the fact that you are an American,” the C.I.A. man said accusingly.

Homer said slowly, “Only because El Hassan is not an American, Mr. Ostrander. He is an African with African solutions to African problems. That is what he must be if he is to accomplish his task.”

Ostrander seemed to switch subjects. “See here, Crawford, the State Department is not completely opposed to the goal of uniting North Africa. It would solve many problems, both African and international.”

Kenny Ballalou laughed softly. “You mean, you’re on our side?”

Ostrander turned to him, for once not incensed at being needled. “Possibly more than you’d think,” he rapped. He turned back again to Homer Crawford. “The question becomes, why do you think that you are the man for the job? Who gave you the go-ahead?”

Bey, who had settled down into a folding camp chair, now came to his feet, his tired face angry.

But Homer waved him to silence. “Hold it,” he said. Then to Ostrander: “It doesn’t work that way. It’s not something you decide to do because you’re thirsty for power, or greedy for money. You’re pushed into it. Do you think Washington, a retired Virginian planter wrapped up in his estate and his family, wanted to spend years leading the revolutionary armies through the wilderness that was America in those days? He was thrust into the job, there was no one else more competent to take it. Men make the times, Ostrander, but the times also make the men. Look at Lenin and Trotsky. Three months before the October Revolution, Lenin wrote that he never expected to see in his lifetime the Bolsheviks come to power. Within those months he was at the head of government and Trotsky, a former bookworm who had never fired a gun in his life, was head of the Red Army and being proclaimed a military genius.”

Ostrander was scowling at him, but his face was thoughtful.

Homer said quietly, “It’s not always an easy thing, to have power thrust into your hands. Not always a desirable thing.” His voice went quieter still. “Only a short time ago it led me to the necessity of … killing … my best friend.”

“And mine,” Isobel said softly, almost under her breath.

Dave Moroka said, “Abe Baker,” before he caught himself.

Kenny Ballalou looked at him strangely. “Did you know Abe?”

The South African recovered. “I’ve heard several of you mention him from time to time. He was a commie, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Homer said without inflection. “And a man. He saved my life on more than one occasion. As long as we worked together with only Africa in mind, there was no conflict. But Abe had a further, and, to him, greater alliance.”

He turned his attention back to the C.I.A. man. “A man does what he must do,” he finished simply. “I did not ask to become El Hassan.”

Ostrander said, “Your motivation is possibly beside the point. The thing is that the battle for men’s minds continues and your program, eventually, must align with the West.”

“And get clobbered in the stampeding around between the two great powers,” Kenny said dryly.

“You’ve got to take your stand,” Ostrander said. “I’d rather die under the neutron bomb than spend the rest of my life on my knees under a Soviet Complex government. Wouldn’t you?” His eyes went from one of them to the other, defiantly.

Homer said slowly. “No, even though that were the only alternative, which is unlikely. Not if it meant finishing off the whole human race at the same time.” He shook his head. “If it were only me, it might be different. But if it was a matter of nuclear war the whole race might well end. Given such circumstances, I’d be proud to remain on my knees the rest of my life. You see, Ostrander, you make the mistake of thinking the Soviet socio-economic system is a permanent thing. It isn’t. It’s changing daily, even as our own socio-economic system is. Even if the Soviet Complex were to dominate the whole world, it would be but a temporary phase in man’s history. Their regime, in its time, right or wrong, will go under in man’s march to whatever his destiny might be. Some day it will be only a memory, and so will the socio-economic systems of the West. No institutions are less permanent than politico-economic ones.”

“I don’t agree with you,” Ostrander snapped.

“Obviously,” Homer shrugged. “However, this is another problem. El Hassan deals with North Africa. The other problems you bring up we admit, but at this stage are not dealing with them. Our dream is in Africa. Perhaps the Africans will be forced to taking other stands, to dreaming new dreams, twenty or thirty years from now. When that time comes, I assume the new problems will be faced. By that time there will probably be no need for El Hassan.”

Ostrander looked at him and bit his lip in thought.

It came to him now that he had never won in his contests with Homer Crawford, and that he would probably never win. No matter how strong his convictions, in the presence of the other man something went out of him. There was strength in Crawford that must be experienced to be understood. When he talked, he held you, and your own opinions became nothing—stupidities on your lips. He had a dream, and in conversation with him, all other things dropped away and nothing was of importance but that dream. A dream? Possibly disease was the better word. And so highly contagious.

While they talked, an aide had entered and handed a report to Bey-ag-Akhamouk. He read it and closed his eyes in weariness.

“What’s up, Bey?” Homer asked.

“I don’t know. Colonel Ibrahim has stepped up his attacks in all directions. At least two-thirds of his force is on the offensive. It doesn’t make much sense. But it must make sense to him, or he wouldn’t be doing it.”

Ostrander said, and to everyone’s surprise there seemed to be an element of worry in his voice too, “I know Colonel Midan Ibrahim, met him in Cairo and in Baghdad on various occasions. He’s considered one of the best men in the Arab Legion. He doesn’t make military blunders.”

Bey said, “Come on, Kenny. Let’s round up Guémama and take a look at the front.” He led the way from the tent.

There was a guard posted before the tent which doubled as press and communications center and the private quarters of David Moroka.

The figure that approached timidly was garbed in the traditional clothing of the young women of the Tégéhé Mellet tribe of the Tuareg and bore an imzad in her left hand, while her right held a corner of her gandoura over her face.

The guard, of the Kel Rela tribe, eyed the one-stringed violin with its string of hair and sounding box made of half a gourd covered with a thin membrane of skin, and grinned. A Tuareg maid was accustomed to sing and to make the high whining tones of desert music on the imzad before submitting to her lover’s embrace. Wallahi! but these women of the Tégéhé Mellet were shameless.

“Where do you go?” he said gruffly. “El Hassan’s vizier has ordered that he is occupied and none should approach.”

“He awaits me,” she wavered. There was khol about her eyes, and indigo at the corners of her mouth. “We met at the tendi last night and he bid me come to his tent. It is for me waits.”

Wallahi! but his leader had taste, the sentry decided.

“Pass,” he said gruffly. Even a vizier of such importance as this one must need solace at times, he decided philosophically.

She slipped past silently to the tent entrance where the Tuareg guard noticed she paused for a long moment before entering. He grinned into his teguelmoust. Aiii, the little bird was timid before the hawk.

She stood for a moment listening, and then slipped inside, dropping the desert musical instrument to the ground. Dave Moroka’s back was to her. Even as she entered he flicked off the switch of the video-radio into which he had been speaking and scowled at it.

When he stood and began to turn, she covered him with the small pocket pistol. She had an ease in handling it which denoted competence.

His eyebrows went up, but he remained silent, waiting for her gambit.

Isobel said evenly, “You’re a Party member, aren’t you, Dave?”

“Why do you say that?”

She nodded infinitesimally to the set. “You were reporting just now. I heard enough just as I came in.”

He took in her disguise. “My guard isn’t as efficient as I had thought,” Dave said wryly.

Isobel said, “You knew Abe Baker, didn’t you?”

He looked at her expressionlessly.

She said, “I already knew you belonged to the Party, Dave. No matter how competent an agent, it’s something difficult to hide from any other long-time member. There’s a terminology you use—such as calling it the Soviet Union, rather than Russia. No commie ever says Russia, it’s always the Soviet Union. You can tell, just as a Roman Catholic can tell a person raised in the Church, even though the other has dropped away, or even as one Jew can tell another. Yes, I’ve known you were a Party member for some time, Dave.”

“And?” the South African said.

“Why are you here?”

Dave Moroka said, “For the same reason you are, to further the El Hassan dream, the uniting and modernization of the continent of my racial heritage.”

“But you are still a Party member and still report to your superiors.”

Dave Moroka looked at the tiny gun she held in her hand.

“Don’t try it,” she said. “I have seen you in action, Dave. I have never seen a man move so ruthlessly fast … but don’t try it.”

“No reason to,” he bit out. “Come on, let’s go see Homer.”

She was slightly taken aback, but not enough to release her control for even a split second. “Lead the way,” she said.

Even at this time of evening, the headquarters tent was brightly lit and most of the immediate El Hassan staff still at work. Homer Crawford looked up as they entered.

Cliff Jackson saw the gun first and said, “Holy mackerel, Isobel.”

Fredric Ostrander was sitting to one side in discussion with the sober-faced Jack Peters. He took in the gun and slowly came to his feet, obviously expecting a climax.

Isobel said, “Dave’s taking over control of communications had method. I just found him reporting to what must have been a superior… in the Party.”

Homer Crawford looked from the South African to Isobel, then back to Dave again, without speaking. His eyes were questioning.

Dave said, his voice sharp. “I haven’t time for details now. Isobel’s right. I was a Party member.”

“Was?” Ostrander chuckled. “That’s the understatement of the year. I hadn’t got around to revealing the fact as yet, but our friend Dave is the notorious Anton, one of the Soviet Complex’s most competent hatchet-men.”

Dave looked at him only briefly. “Was,” he reiterated. He turned his attention to Homer and to Bey, who was staring tired dismay at this new addition to the load.

Homer still held his peace, waiting for the other to go on.

“I found out tonight why Colonel Ibrahim is attacking, instead of pulling in his horns as reason would dictate.” Dave paused for emphasis. “The Soviet Complex has thrown its weight, in this matter at least, on the side of the Arab Union. They have insisted that Sven Zetterberg be dismissed as head of the Sahara Division of the African Development Project, and that his threat to use Reunited Nations aircraft if the local fighting spreads to the air be repudiated.”

Kenny blurted, “Good grief … that means…”

Dave looked around at them, one by one. “It means,” he said, “that the Arab Legion is going to be reinforced tomorrow morning by a full regiment of paratroopers.”

“Holy mackerel,” Cliff groaned. “We’ve had it. Another regiment of crack troops in Tamanrasset and we’ll never take the town.”

Dave shook his head. “That’s not the big thing. The paratroopers aren’t going to drop in Tamanrasset. They’re going to hit every oasis, every water hole, in a circumference of two hundred miles.”

There was an empty silence.

Homer Crawford said finally, evenly, “In the expectation that every follower of El Hassan in the Sahara will either surrender or die of thirst, eh?” He didn’t seem sufficiently impressed by the threatening disaster. He looked at Dave questioningly. “Why do you bother to tell us, Dave, if you’re on the other side?”

Dave grunted sour amusement. “Because I’ve just become a full member of the team. I resigned from the Party tonight.”

“Brother,” Bey said, “you sure pick a helluva time to join up.” He obviously was expressing the opinions of the majority.

Homer Crawford came to his feet and looked around at them. “All right,” he said. “A new complication. Let’s face up to it. There’s always an answer. We’re in the clutch, let’s fight our way out.”

Largely, they stared at him, but he ignored their dismay. He looked from one to the other. “We need some ideas. Let’s kick it around. Isobel, Cliff, Jack, Kenny?” His eyes went from one to the other. Obviously his own mind was churning.

They shook their heads dumbly.

Kenny said, “Ideas! We’ve had it, Homer!”

Homer Crawford spun on him, and now the force they all knew was emanating from him. He laughed his scorn. “A month ago we were half a dozen fugitives. Now we’re an army besieging a city. And you say we’ve had it? Listen, Kenny, if we have to we’ll go back to being half a dozen fugitives again—those of us that are left. But the dream goes on! However, we’re not going to have to. We’re too near victory in this stage of the operation to sit down on the job because of a threatened reverse. Now then, let’s kick it around. Jimmy! Dave! Kenny! Ostrander!”

Fredric Ostrander raised his eyebrows only slightly at being included in their number.

Bey, for once, was seemingly too exhausted to be brought to new enthusiasm. He tossed a detail map of Tamanrasset to the table. “And I’d just worked out a bang-up scheme for infiltrating into town, joining up with our adherents there, and seizing it while most of Ibrahim’s men were out in the desert, trying to capture our nearer water holes.”

Homer snapped, “It sounds like it still might have possibilities.”

Ostrander looked down at the map, his face very tight. “How long would it take?”

Bey scowled at him, defeat dulling his mind. “What?”

“How long do you figure it would take to infiltrate Tamanrasset and capture it? Behind Ibrahim’s back, so to speak.”

Bey grunted. “A couple of hours in the early morning. I had a beautiful picture of the colonel’s armor out in the desert, cut off from its petroleum supplies and ammunition dump while we held the town. Some of our men, the former veterans of the French West African forces, could have even operated the antitank guns he has mounted at Fort Laperrine.”

The C.I.A. man’s mouth worked.

Homer Crawford’s eyes pierced him.

Ostrander walked over to the radio before which Kenny Ballalou sat. “See if you can raise Colonel Ibrahim for me.”

Kenny scowled at him. “Why?”

“Do it.”

Kenny looked at Homer Crawford.

Homer said, “O.K. Do it.”

Kenny shrugged and turned to the set While the others watched, Crawford’s face alert, his eyes narrowed, the rest of them dull in apathy, the face of Colonel Ibrahim finally faded in on the screen.

Fredric Ostrander took his place at the instrument. He nodded formally. “Greetings, Colonel, it seems a long time since last we met in Amman.”

The Arab Legion officer smiled politely. “I had heard that you represented the State Department in this area, Mr. Ostrander, and have been somewhat surprised that you failed to make Tamanrasset your headquarters. It would have been pleasant to have renewed old friendship.”

Ostrander cleared his throat. “I am afraid that would have been difficult, Colonel, particularly in view of the stand of my government at this time.”

On the screen, the other’s eyebrows went up.

Ostrander said evenly, “Colonel, we have just been informed that a regiment of paratroopers has been put at your disposal and that they plan to land at various points in the Sahara in the morning.”

The colonel said stiffly, “This is military information which I am not free to discuss, Mr. Ostrander.”

Fredric Ostrander went on, his voice still even. “We have further been informed that the Reunited Nations has withdrawn its ban on aircraft, which would seem to free your paratroop-carrying planes.”

The colonel remained silent, waiting for the bombshell. It was obvious that he expected a bombshell.

Ostrander said, “As representative of the State Department I warn you that if these paratroop-carrying planes take off tomorrow morning, the Seventh Airfleet of the United States of the Americas will enter the conflict on the side of El Hassan. Good evening, Colonel.”

The C.I.A. man reached out and flicked the switch that killed the set. Then he took the snowy white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and wiped his mouth.

Isobel said, “Heavens to Betsy.”

Kenny said indignantly, “Good grief, you fool, it won’t take more than hours for your superiors to repudiate you. Then what happens?”

“By then, I assume, the battle will be over and Tamanrasset in El Hassan’s hands. The Arab Union will then think twice before committing their paratroopers, particularly with captured armor in El Hassan’s hands.”

“And your name will be mud,” Kenny blurted.

Ostrander looked at Homer Crawford. “Gentlemen, you must remember that I, too, am an African. I had thought that perhaps there would be a position for me on El Hassan’s staff.”

Crawford reached for the Tommy-Noiseless that leaned up against the improvised desk at which he worked. He said, “Let’s get moving, Bey. We haven’t much time. We’re going to have to be able to announce its capture from Tamanrasset in a couple of hours.”

“Not you,” Bey said, grabbing up his own weapon and motioning with his head for Kenny and Cliff to come along. “You’re El Hassan and can’t be risked.”

“I’m coming,” Homer said flatly. “It’s about time El Hassan began taking some of the same risks his followers seem to be willing to face. Besides, the men will fight better with me out in front. Got a gun, Fred?”

Ostrander said, “No. Where am I issued one?”

“I’ll show you,” Homer said, stuffing extra clips in his bush jacket pockets. “Come on, Dave.”

The whole group began heading for the open air, Bey already yelling orders.

Fredric Ostrander looked at Dave Moroka. “Strange bedfellows,” he said.

Moroka grinned wryly. “My long view hasn’t changed,” he said. “It’s just that this African matter takes precedence right now.”

“Nor mine, of course,” Ostrander said. He cleared his throat. “However, I hope you last out the night. El Hassan needs strong men.”

“Same to you,” Moroka said gruffly. “Let’s get going, or the fight will be over while we hand each other flowers.”