Abe was driving up the truck.
Crawford said, "O.K., let's go, gal."
"Roger," she said, climbing first into the back of the vehicle and then up onto the roof of the cab.
Isobel held her hands high above her head and in the cab Abe bore down on the horn for a long moment.
Isobel shrilled, "Hear what the messenger from El Hassan has come to tell us! Hear the friend and devoted follower of El Hassan!"
At the same time, Jake, Kenny, and Cliff discontinued their own harangues and themselves headed for the new speaker.
They stayed for three days and had it well wrapped up in that time. The tribesmen, bored when the excitement fell away and it became obvious that there were to be no further riots, and certainly no violence, drifted back to their villages. The city dwellers returned to the routine of daily existence. And the police, who had mysteriously disappeared from the streets at the height of the demonstrations, now magically reappeared and began asserting their authority somewhat truculently.
At the hall meetings, mighty slogans were drafted and endless committees formed. The more articulate, the more educated and able of the demonstrators were marked out for future reference, but for the moment given meaningless tasks to keep them busy and out of trouble.
On the fourth day, Homer Crawford received orders to proceed to Dakar, leaving the rest of the team behind to keep an eye on the situation.
Abe groaned, "There's luck for you. Dakar, nearest thing to a good old sin city in a thousand miles. And who gets to go? Old sour puss, here. Got no more interest in the hot spots—"
Homer said, "You can come along, Abe."
Kenny Ballalou said, "Orders were only you, Homer."
Crawford growled, "Yes, but I have a suspicion I'm being called on the carpet for one of our recent escapades and I want backing if I need it." He added, "Besides, nothing is going to happen here."
"Crazy man," Abe said appreciatively.
Jake said, "We three were planning to head for Dakar today ourselves. Isobel, in particular, is exhausted and needs a prolonged rest before going out among the natives any more. You might as well continue to let us supply your transportation."
"Fine," Homer told him. "Come on Abe, let's get our things together."
"What do we do while you chaps are gone?" Elmer Allen said sourly. "I wouldn't mind a period in a city myself."
"Read a book, man," Abe told him. "Improve your mind."
"I've read a book," Elmer said glumly. "Any other ideas?"
Dakar is a big, bustling, prosperous and modern city shockingly set down in the middle of the poverty that is Africa. It should be, by its appearance, on the French Riviera, on the California coast, or possibly that of Florida, but it isn't. It's in Senegal, in the area once known as French West Africa.
Their aircraft swept in and landed at the busy airport.
They were assigned an African Development Project air-cushion car and drove into the city proper.
Dakar boasts some of the few skyscrapers in all Africa. The Reunited Nations occupied one of these in its entirety. Dakar was the center of activities for the whole Western Sahara and down into the Sudan. Across the street from its offices, a street still named Rue des Résistance in spite of the fact that the French were long gone, was the Hotel Juan-les-Pins.
Crawford and Abe Baker had radioed ahead and accommodations were ready for them. Their western clothing and other gear had been brought up from storage in the cellar.
At the desk, the clerk didn't blink at the Tuareg costume the two still wore. This was commonplace. He probably wouldn't have blinked had Isobel arrived in the costume of the Dogon. "Your suite is ready, Dr. Crawford," he said.
The manager came up and shook hands with an old customer and Homer Crawford introduced him to Isobel, Jake and Cliff, requesting he do his best for them. He and Abe then made their excuses and headed for the paradise of hot water, towels, western drink and the other amenities of civilization.
On the way up in the elevator, Abe said happily, "Man, I can justtastethat bath I'm going to take. Crazy!"
"Personally," Crawford said, trying to reflect some of the other's typically lighthearted enthusiasm, "I have in mind a few belts out of a bottle of stone-age cognac, then a steak yea big and a flock of French fries, followed by vanilla ice cream."
Abe's eyes went round. "Man, you mean we can't get a good dish of cous cous in this town?"
"Cous cous," Crawford said in agony.
Abe made his voice so soulful. "With a good dollop of rancid camel butter right on top."
Homer laughed as they reached their floor and started for the suite. "You make it sound so good, I almost believe you." Inside he said, "Dibbers on the first bath. How about phoning down for a bottle of Napoleon and some soda and ice? When it comes, just mix me one and bring it in, that hand you see emerging from the soap bubbles in that tub, will be mine."
"I hear and obey, O Bwana!" Abe said in a servile tone.
By the time they'd cleaned up and had eaten an enormous western style meal in the dining room of the Juan-les-Pins, it was well past the hour when they could have made contact with their Reunited Nations superiors. They had a couple of cognacs in the bar, then, whistling happily, Abe Baker went out on the town.
Homer Crawford looked up Isobel, Jake and Cliff who had, sure enough, found accommodations in the same hotel.
Isobel stepped back in mock surprise when she saw Crawford in western garb. "Heavens to Betsy," she said. "The man is absolutely extinguished in a double-breasted charcoal gray."
He tried a scowl and couldn't manage it. "The word isdistinguished, not extinguished," he said. He looked down at the suit, critically. "You know, I feel uncomfortable. I wonder if I'll be able to sit down in a chair instead of squatting." He looked at her own evening frock. "Wow," he said.
Cliff Jackson said menacingly, "None of that stuff, Crawford. Isobel has already been asked for, let's have no wolfing around."
Isobel said tartly, "Asked for but she didn't answer the summons." She took Homer by the arm. "And I just adore extinguish—oops, I mean distinguished looking men."
They trooped laughingly into the hotel cocktail lounge.
The time passed pleasantly. Jake and Cliff were good men in a field close to Homer Crawford's heart. Isobel was possibly the most attractive woman he'd ever met. They discussed in detail each other's work and all had stories of wonder to describe.
Crawford wondered vaguely if there was ever going to be a time, in this life of his, for a woman and all that one usually connects with womanhood. What was it Elmer Allen had said at the Timbuktu meeting? "...most of us will be kept busy the rest of our lives at this."
In his present state of mind, it didn't seem too desirable a prospect. But there was no way out for such as Homer Crawford. What had Cliff Jackson said at the same meeting? "We do what we must do." Which, come to think of it, didn't jibe too well with Cliff's claim at Mopti to be in it solely for the job. Probably the man disguised his basic idealism under a cloak of cynicism; if so, he wouldn't be the first.
They said their goodnights early. All of them were used to Sahara hours. Up at dawn, to bed shortly after sunset; the desert has little fuel to waste on illumination.
In the suite again, Homer Crawford noted that Abe hadn't returned as yet. He snorted deprecation. The younger man would probably be out until dawn. Dakar had much to offer in the way of civilization's fleshpots.
He took up the bottle of cognac and poured himself a healthy shot, wishing that he'd remembered to pick up a paperback at the hotel's newsstand before coming to bed.
He swirled the expensive brandy in the glass and brought it to his nose to savor the bouquet.
But fifteen-year-old brandy from the cognac district of France should not boast a bouquet involving elements of bitter almonds. With an automatic startled gesture, Crawford jerked his face away from the glass.
He scowled down at it for a long moment, then took up the bottle and sniffed it. He wondered how a would-be murderer went about getting hold of cyanide in Dakar.
Homer Crawford phoned the desk and got the manager. Somebody had been in the suite during his absence. Was there any way of checking?
He didn't expect satisfaction and didn't receive any. The manager, after finding that nothing seemed to be missing, seemed to think that perhaps Dr. Crawford had made a mistake. Homer didn't bother to tell him about the poisoned brandy. He hung up, took the bottle into the bathroom and poured it away.
In the way of precautions, he checked the windows to see if there were any possibilities of entrance by an intruder, locked the door securely, put his handgun beneath his pillow and fell off to sleep. When and if Abe returned, he could bang on the door.
In the morning, clad in American business suits and frankly feeling a trifle uncomfortable in them, Homer Crawford and Abraham Baker presented themselves at the offices of the African Development Project, Sahara Division, of the Reunited Nations. Uncharacteristically, there was no waiting in anterooms, no dealing with subordinates. Dr. Crawford and his lieutenant were ushered directly to the office of Sven Zetterberg.
Upon their entrance the Swede came to his feet, shook hands abruptly with both of them and sat down again. He scowled at Abe and said to Homer in excellent English, "It was requested that your team remain in Mopti." Then he added, "Sit down, gentlemen."
They took chairs. Crawford said mildly, "Mr. Baker is my right-hand man. I assume he'd take over the team if anything happened to me." He added dryly, "Besides, there were a few things he felt he had to do about town."
Abe cleared his throat but remained silent.
Zetterberg continued to frown but evidently for a different reason now. He said, "There have been more complaints about your ... ah ... cavalier tactics."
Homer looked at him but said nothing.
Zetterberg said in irritation, "It becomes necessary to warn you almost every time you come in contact with this office, Dr. Crawford."
Homer said evenly, "My team and I work in the field Dr. Zetterberg. We have to think on our feet and usually come to decisions in split seconds. Sometimes our lives are at stake. We do what we think best under the conditions. At any time your office feels my efforts are misdirected, my resignation is available."
The Swede cleared his throat. "The Arab Union has made a full complaint in the Reunited Nations of a group of our men massacring thirty-five of their troopers."
Homer said, "They were well into the Ahaggar with a convoy of modern weapons, obviously meant for adherents of theirs. Given the opportunity, the Arab Union would take over North Africa."
"This is no reason to butcher thirty-five men."
"We were fired upon first," Crawford said.
"That is not the way they tell it. They claim you ambushed them."
Abe put in innocently, "How would the Arab Union know? We didn't leave any survivors."
Zetterberg glared at him. "It is not easy, Mr. Baker, for we who do the paper work involved in this operation, to account for the activities of you hair-trigger men in the field."
"We appreciate your difficulties," Homer said evenly. "But we can only continue to do what we think best on being confronted with an emergency."
The Swede drummed his fingers on the desk top. "Perhaps I should remind you that the policy of this project is to encourage amalgamation of the peoples of the area. Possibly, the Arab Union will prove to be the best force to accomplish such a union."
Abe grunted.
Homer Crawford was shaking his head. "You don't believe that Dr. Zetterberg, and I doubt if there are many non-Moslems who do. Mohammed sprung out of the deserts and his religion is one based on the surroundings, both physical and socio-economic."
Zetterberg grumbled, argumentatively, though his voice lacked conviction, "So did its two sister religions, Judaism and Christianity."
Crawford waggled a finger negatively. "Both of them adapted to changing times, with considerable success. Islam has remained the same and in all the world there is not one example of a highly developed socio-economic system in a Moslem country. The reason is that in your country, and mine, and in the other advanced countries of the West, we pay lip service to our religions, but we don't let them interfere with our day by day life. But the Moslem, like the rapidly disappearing ultra-orthodox Jews, lives his religion every day and by the rules set down by the Prophet fifteen centuries ago. Everything a Moslem does from the moment he gets up in the morning is all mapped out in the Koran. What fingers of the hand to eat with, what hand to break bread with—and so on and so forth. It can get ludicrous. You should see the bathroom of a wealthy Moslem in some modern city such as Tangier. Mohammed never dreamed of such institutions as toilet paper. His followers still obey the rules he set down as an alternative."
"What's your point?"
"That North Africa cannot be united under the banner of Islam if she is going to progress rapidly. If it ever unites, it will be in spite of local religions—Islam and pagan as well; they hold up the wheels of progress."
Zetterberg stared at him. The truth of the matter was that he agreed with the American and they both knew it.
He said, "This matter of physically assaulting and then arresting the chieftain"—he looked down at a paper on his desk—"of the Ouled Touameur clan of the Chaambra confederation, Abd-el-Kader. From your report, the man was evidently attempting to unify the tribes."
Crawford was shaking his head impatiently. "No. He didn't have the ... dream. He was a raider, a racketeer, not a leader of purposeful men. Perhaps it's true that these people need a hero to act as a symbol for them, but he can't be such as Abd-el-Kader."
"I suppose you're right," the Swede said grudgingly. "See here, have you heard reports of a group of Cubans, in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan to help with the new sugar refining there, being attacked?"
The eyes of both Crawford and Baker narrowed. There'd been talk about this at Timbuktu. "Only a few rumors," Crawford said.
The Swede drummed his desk with his nervous fingers. "The rumors are correct. The whole group was either killed or wounded." He said suddenly, "You had nothing to do with this, I suppose?"
Crawford held his palms up, in surprise, "My team has never been within a thousand miles of Khartoum."
Zetterberg said, "See here, we suspect the Cubans might have supported Soviet Complex viewpoints."
Crawford shrugged, "I know nothing about them at all."
Zetterberg said, "Do you think this might be the work of El Hassan and his followers?"
Abe started to chuckle something, but Homer shook his head slightly in warning and said, "I don't know."
"How did that affair in Mopti turn out, these riots in favor of El Hassan?"
Homer Crawford shrugged. "Routine. Must have been as many as ten thousand of them at one point. We used standard tactics in gaining control and then dispersing them. I'll have a complete written report to you before the day is out."
Zetterberg said, "You've heard about this El Hassan before?"
"Quite a bit."
"From the rumors that have come into this office, he backs neither East nor West in international politics. He also seems to agree with your summation of the Islamic problem. He teaches separation of Church and State."
"They're the same thing in Moslem countries," Abe muttered.
Zetterberg tossed his bombshell out of a clear sky. "Dr. Crawford," he snapped, "in spite of the warnings we've had to issue to you repeatedly, you are admittedly our best man in the field. We're giving you a new assignment. Find this El Hassan and bring him here!"
Zetterberg leaned forward, an expression of somewhat anxious sincerity in his whole demeanor.
Abe Baker choked, and then suddenly laughed.
Sven Zetterberg stared at him. "What's so funny?"
"Well, nothing," Abe admitted. He looked to Homer Crawford.
Crawford said to the Swede carefully, "Why?"
Zetterberg said impatiently, "Isn't it obvious, after the conversation we've had here? Possibly this El Hassan is the man we're looking for. Perhaps this is the force that will bind North Africa together. Thus far, all we've heard about him has been rumor. We don't seem to be able to find anyone who has seen him, nor is the exact strength of his following known. We'd like to confer with him, before he gets any larger."
Crawford said carefully, "It's hard to track down a rumor."
"That's why we give the assignment to our best team in the field," the Swede told him. "You've got a roving commission. Find El Hassan and bring him here to Dakar."
Abe grinned and said, "Suppose he doesn't want to come?"
"Use any methods you find necessary. If you need more manpower, let us know. But we must talk to El Hassan."
Homer said, still watching his words, "Why the urgency?"
The Reunited Nations official looked at him for a long moment, as though debating whether to let him in on higher policy. "Because, frankly, Dr. Crawford, the elements which first went together to produce the African Development Project, are, shall we say, becoming somewhat unstuck."
"The glue was never too strong," Abe muttered.
Zetterberg nodded. "The attempt to find competent, intelligent men to work for the project, who were at the same time altruistic and unaffected by personal or national interests, has always been a difficult one. If you don't mind my saying so, we Scandinavians, particularly those not affiliated with NATO come closest to filling the bill. We have no designs on Africa. It is unfortunate that we have practically no Negro citizens who could do field work."
"Are you suggesting other countries have designs on Africa?" Homer said.
For the first time the Swede laughed. A short, choppy laugh. "Are you suggesting they haven't? What was that convoy of the Arab Union bringing into the Sahara? Guns, with which to forward their cause of taking over all North Africa. What were those Cubans doing in Sudan, that someone else felt it necessary to assassinate them? What is the program of the Soviet Complex as it applies to this area, and how does it differ from that of the United States? And how do the ultimate programs of the British Commonwealth and the French Community differ from each other and from both the United States and Russia?"
"That's why we have a Reunited Nations," Crawford said calmly.
"Theoretically, yes. But it is coming apart at the seams. I sometimes wonder if an organization composed of a membership each with its own selfish needs can ever really unite in an altruistic task. Remember the early days when the Congo was first given her freedom? Supposedly the United Nations went in to help. Actually, each element in the United Nations had its own irons in the fire, and usually their desires differed."
The Swede shrugged hugely. "I don't know, but I am about convinced, and so are a good many other officers of this project, that unless we soon find a competent leader to act as a symbol around which all North Africans can unite, find such a man and back him, that all our work will crumble in this area under pressure from outside. That's why we want El Hassan."
Homer Crawford came to his feet, his face in a scowl. "I'll let you know by tomorrow, if I can take the assignment," he said.
"Why tomorrow?" the Swede demanded.
"There are some ramifications I have to consider."
"Very well," the Swede said stiffly. He came to his own feet and shook hands with them again. "Oh, there's just one other thing. This spontaneous meeting you held in Timbuktu with elements from various other organizations. How did it come out?"
Crawford was wary. "Very little result, actually."
Zetterberg chuckled. "As I expected. However, we would appreciate it, doctor, if you and your team would refrain from such activities in the future. You are, after all, hired by the Reunited Nations and owe it all your time and allegiance. We have no desire to see you fritter away this time with religious fanatics and other crackpot groups."
"I see," Crawford said.
The other laughed cheerfully. "I'm sure you do, Dr. Crawford. A word to the wise."
They remained silent on the way back to the hotel.
In the lobby they ran into Isobel Cunningham.
Homer Crawford looked at her thoughtfully. He said, "We've got some thinking to do and some ideas to bat back and forth. I value your opinion and experience, Isobel, could you come up to the suite and sit in?"
She tilted her head, looked at him from the side of her eyes. "Something big has happened, hasn't it?"
"I suppose so. I don't know. We've got to make some decisions."
"Come on Isobel," Abe said. "You can give us the feminine viewpoint and all that jazz."
They started for the elevator and Isobel said to Abe, "If you'd just be consistent with that pseudo-beatnik chatter of yours, I wouldn't mind. But half the time you talk like an English lit major when you forget to put on your act."
"Man," Abe said to her, "maybe I was wrong inviting you to sit in on this bull session. I can see you're in a bad mood."
In the living room of the suite, Isobel took an easy-chair and Abe threw himself full length on his back on a couch. Homer Crawford paced the floor.
"Well?" Isobel said.
Crawford said abruptly, "Somebody tried to poison me last night. Got into this room somehow and put cyanide in a bottle of cognac Abe and I were drinking out of earlier in the evening."
Isobel stared at him. Her eyes went from him to Abe and back. "But ... but, why?"
Crawford ran his hand back over his wiry hair in puzzlement. "I ... I don't know. That's what's driving me batty. I can't figure out why anybody would want to kill me."
"I can," Abe said bluntly. "And that interview we just had with Sven Zetterberg just bears me out."
"Zetterberg," Isobel said, surprised. "Is he in Africa?"
Crawford nodded to her question but his eyes were on Abe.
Abe put his hands behind his head and said to the ceiling, "Zetterberg just gave Homer's team the assignment of bringing in El Hassan."
"El Hassan? But you boys told us all in Timbuktu that there was no El Hassan. You invented him and then the rest of us, more or less spontaneously, though unknowingly, took up the falsification and spread your work."
"That's right," Crawford said, still looking at Abe.
"But didn't you tell Sven Zetterberg?" Isobel demanded. "He's too big a man to play jokes upon."
"No, I didn't and I'm not sure I know why."
"I know why," Abe said. He sat up suddenly and swung his feet around and to the floor.
The other two watched him, both frowning.
Abe said slowly, "Homer, youareEl Hassan."
His chief scowled at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"
The younger man gestured impatiently. "Figure it out. Somebody else already has, the somebody who took a shot at you from that mosque. Look, put it all together and it makes sense.
"These North Africans aren't going to make it, not in the short period of time that we want them to, unless a leader appears on the scene. These people are just beginning to emerge from tribal society. In the tribes, people live by rituals and taboos, by traditions. But at the next step in the evolution of society they follow a Hero—and the traditions are thrown overboard. It's one step up the ladder of cultural evolution. Just for the record, the Heroes almost invariably get clobbered in the end, since a Hero must be perfect. Once he is found wanting in any respect, he's a false prophet, a cheat, and a new, perfect and faultless Hero must be found.
"O.K. At this stage we need a Hero to unite North Africa, but this time we need a real super-Hero. In this modern age, the old style one won't do. We need one with education, and altruism, one with the dream, as you call it. We need a man who has no affiliations, no preferences for Tuareg, Teda, Chaambra, Dogon, Moor or whatever. He's got to be truly neutral. O.K., you're it. You're an American Negro, educated, competent, widely experienced. You're a natural for the job. You speak Arabic, French, Tamabeq, Songhai and even Swahili."
Abe stopped momentarily and twisted his face in a grimace. "But there's one other thing that's possibly the most important of all. Homer, you're a born leader."
"Whome?" Crawford snorted. "I hate to be put in a position where I have to lead men, make decisions, that sort of thing.
"That's beside the point. There in Timbuktu you had them in the palm of your hand. All except one or two, like Doc Smythe and that missionary. And I have an idea even they'd come around. Everybody there felt it. They were in favor of anything you suggested. Isobel?"
She nodded, very seriously. "Yes. You have a personality that goes over, Homer. I think it would be a rare person who could conceive of you cheating, or misleading. You're so obviously sincere, competent and intelligent that it, well,projectsitself. I noticed it even more in Mopti than Timbuktu. You had that city in your palm in a matter of a few hours."
Homer Crawford shifted his shoulders, uncomfortably.
Abe said, "You might dislike the job, but it's a job that needs doing."
Crawford ran his hand around the back of his neck, uncomfortably. "You think such a project would get the support of the various teams and organizations working North Africa, eh?"
"Practically a hundred per cent. And even if some organizations or even countries, with their own row to hoe, tried to buck you, their individual members and teams would come over. Why? Because it makes sense."
Homer Crawford said worriedly, "Actually, I've realized this, partially subconsciously, for some time. But I didn't put myself in the role. I ... I wish there really was an El Hassan. I'd throw my efforts behind him."
"There will be an El Hassan," Abe said definitely. "And you can be him."
Crawford stared at Abe, undecided.
Isobel said, suddenly, "I think Abe's right, Homer."
Abe seemed to switch the tempo of his talk. He said, "There's just one thing, Homer. It's a long range question, but it's an important one."
"Yes?"
"What're your politics?"
"My politics? I haven't any politics here in North Africa."
"I mean back home. I've never discussed politics with you, Homer, partly because I haven't wanted to reveal my own. But now the question comes up. What is your position, ultimately, speaking on a world-wide basis?"
Homer looked at him quizzically, trying to get at what was behind the other's words. "I don't belong to any political party," he said slowly.
Abe said evenly, "I do, Homer. I'm a Party member."
Crawford was beginning to get it. "If you mean do I ultimately support the program of the Soviet Complex, the answer is definitely no. Whether or not it's desirable for Russia or for China, is up to the Russians and Chinese to decide. But I don't believe it's desirable for such advanced countries as the United States and most of Western Europe. We've got large problems that need answering, but the commies don't supply the answers so far as I'm concerned."
"I see," Abe said. He was far, far different than the laughing, beatnik jabbering, youngster he had always seemed. "That's not so good."
"Why not?" Homer demanded. His eyes went to where Isobel sat, her face strained at all this, but he could read nothing in her expression, and she said nothing.
Abe said, "Because, admittedly, North Africa isn't ready for a communist program as yet. It's in too primitive a condition. However, it's progressing fast, fantastically fast, and the coming of El Hassan is going to speed things up still more."
Abe said deliberately, "Possibly twenty years from now the areawillbe ready for a communist program. And at that time we don't want somebody with El Hassan's power and prestige against us. We take the long view, Homer, and it dictates that El Hassan has to be secretly on the Party's side."
Homer was nodding. "I see. So that's why you shot at me in Timbuktu."
Abe's eyes went wary. He said, "I didn't know you knew."
Crawford nodded. "It just came to me. It had to be you. Supposedly, you broke into the mosque from the back at the same moment I came in the front. Actually, you were already inside." Homer grunted. "Besides, it would have been awfully difficult for anyone else to have doped that bottle of cognac on me. What I couldn't understand, and still can't, was motive. We've been in the clutch together more than once, Abe."
"That's right, Homer, but there are some things so important that friendship goes by the board. I could see as far back as that meeting something that hadn't occurred to either you or the others. You were a born El Hassan. I figured it was necessary to get you out of the way and put one of our own—perhaps me, even—in your place. No ill feelings, Homer. In fact, now I've just given you your chance. You could come in with us—"
Even as he was speaking, his eyes moved in a way Homer Crawford recognized. He'd seen Abe Baker in action often enough. A gun flicked out of an under-the-arm holster, but Crawford moved in anticipation. The flat of his hand darted forward, chopped and the hand weapon was on the floor.
As Isobel screamed, Abe countered the attack. He reached forward in a jujitsu maneuver, grabbed a coat sleeve and a handful of suit coat. He twisted quickly, threw the other man over one hip and to the floor.
But Homer Crawford was already expertly rolling with the fall, rolling out to get a fresh start.
Abe Baker knew that in the long go, in spite of his somewhat greater heft, he wouldn't be able to take his former chief in the other man's own field. Now he threw himself on the other, on the floor. Legs and arms tangled in half realized, quickly defeated holds and maneuvers.
Abe called, "Quick, Isobel, the gun. Get the gun and cover him."
She shook her head, desperately. "Oh no. No!"
Abe bit out, his teeth grinding under the punishment he was taking, "That's an order,Comrade Cunningham! Get the gun!"
"No. No, I can't!" She turned and fled the room.
Abe muttered an obscenity, bridged and crabbed out of the desperate position he was in. And now his fingers were but a few inches from the weapon. He stretched.
Homer Crawford, heavy veins in his own forehead from his exertions, panted, "Abe, I can't let you get that gun. Call it quits."
"Can't, Homer," Abe gritted. His fingers were a few fractions of an inch from the weapon.
Crawford panted, "Abe, there's just one thing I can do. A karate blow.Ican chop your windpipe with the side of my hand. Abe, if I do, only immediate surgery could save your—"
Abe's fingers closed about the gun and Crawford, calling on his last resources, lashed out. He could feel the cartilage collapse, a sound of air, for a moment, almost like a shriek filled the room.
The gun was meaningless now. Homer Crawford, his face agonized, was on his knees beside the other who was threshing on the floor. "Abe," he groaned. "You made me."
Abe Baker's face was quickly going ashen in his impossible quest for oxygen. For a last second there was a gleam in his eyes and his lips moved. Crawford bent down. He wasn't sure, but he thought that somehow the other found enough air to get out a last, "Crazy man."
When it was over, Homer Crawford stood again, and looked down at the body, his face expressionless.
From behind him a voice said, "So I got here too late."
Crawford turned. It was Elmer Allen, gun in hand.
Homer Crawford said dully, "What are you doing here?"
Elmer looked at the body, then back at his chief. "Bey figured out what must have happened at the mosque there in Timbuktu. We didn't know what might be motivating Abe, but we got here as quick as we could."
"He was a commie," Crawford said dully. "Evidently, the Party decided I stood in its way. Where are the others?"
"Scouring the town to find you."
Crawford said wearily, "Find the others and bring them here. We've got to get rid of poor Abe, there, and then I've got something to tell you."
"Very well, chief," Elmer said, holstering his gun. "Oh, just one thing before I go. You know that chap Rex Donaldson? Well, we had some discussion after you left. This'll probably surprise you Homer, but—hold onto your hat, as you Americans say—Donaldson thinks you ought tobecomeEl Hassan. And Bey, Kenny and I agree."
Crawford said, "We'll talk about it later, Elmer."
He knocked at her door and a moment later she came. She saw who it was, opened for him and returned to the room beyond. She had obviously been crying.
Homer Crawford said, but with no reproach in his voice, "You should have helped me, to be consistent."
"I knew you'd win."
"Nevertheless, once you'd switched sides, you should have attempted to help me. If you had, maybe Abe would still be alive."
She took a quick agonized breath, and sat down in one of the two chairs, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She said, "I ... I've known Abe since my early teens."
He said nothing.
"In college, he was the cell leader. He enlisted me into the Party."
Crawford still didn't speak.
She said defiantly, "He was an idealist, Homer."
"I know that," Crawford said. "And along with it, he's saved my life, on at least three different occasions in the past few years. He was a good man."
It was her turn to hold silence.
Homer hit the palm of his left hand with the fist of his right. "That's what so many don't realize. They think this is all a kind of cowboys and Indians affair. The good guys and the bad guys fighting it out. And, of course, all the good guys are on our side and their side is composed of bad guys. They don't realize that many, even most, of the enemy are fighting for an ideal, too—and are willing to die for it, or do things sometimes even harder than dying."
He paced the floor for an agonized moment, before adding. "The fact that the ideal is a false one—or so, at least, is my opinion—is beside the point."
He suddenly dropped it and switched subjects. "This isn't as much a surprise to me as you possibly think, Isobel. There was only one way that episode in Timbuktu could have taken place. Abe was waiting for me to pass that mosque. But I had to pass. I had to befingeredas the old gangster expression had it. And you led me into the ambush."
He looked down at her. "But what changed his mind? Why did he offer, tonight, to let me take over the El Hassan leadership?"
Isobel said, her voice low. "In Timbuktu, when Abe saw the way things were going, he realized you'd have to be liquidated, otherwise El Hassan would be a leader the Party couldn't control. He tried to eliminate you, and then tried again with the cognac. Last night, however, he checked with local party leaders and they decided that he'd acted too precipitately. They suggested you be given the opportunity to line up with the Party."
"And if I didn't?" Homer said.
"Then you were to be liquidated."
"So the finger is still on me, eh?"
"Yes, you'll have to be careful."
He looked full into her face. "How do you stand now?"
She returned his frank look. "I'm the first follower to dedicate her services to El Hassan."
"So you want to come along?"
"Yes," she said simply.
"And you remember what Abe said? That in the end the Hero invariably gets clobbered? Sooner or later, North Africa will outgrow the need for a Hero to follow and then ... then El Hassan and his closest followers have a good chance of winding up before a firing squad."
"Yes, I know that."
Homer Crawford ran his hand back over his short hair, wearily. "O.K., Isobel. Your first instructions are to contact those two friends of yours, Jake Armstrong and Cliff Jackson. Try to convert them."
"What are you going to be doing ... El Hassan?"
"I'm going over to the Reunited Nations to resign from the African Development Project. I have a sneaking suspicion that in the future they will not always be seeing eye to eye with El Hassan. Nor will the other organizations currently helping to advance Africa—whilst still at the same time keeping their own irons in the fire. Possibly the commies won't be the only ones in favor of liquidating El Hassan's assets."