Mack Reynolds - The Best Ye Breed

Homer said, “We have one advantage. El Aicha, the elder of the Ouled Fredj tribe, and, as such, the senior member of the djemaa el kebar , has no particular admiration for our boy Abd. He’s old enough to remember the French occupation and, seemingly, instinctively knows that the old days will never return. Remember, he sided with me, when I had my run-in with Abd-el-Kader, even lending me his sword? He’ll hold off the hotheads and crackpot religious leaders long enough for us to have our say.”

“Yeah,” Kenny said gloomily. “And then they’ll slit our throats. Or maybe not bother. Just hand us over to the womenfolk for the usual castration and related bits of torture, desert style.”

Homer said, “I’ve got the germ of an idea. Listen…”

Homer Crawford had been correct. The djemaa el Kebar was being held in the traditional location. But this one differed greatly from the one Crawford’s team had come up against the first time. It must have been three times the size, and it was obvious that at least half of the assembled tribes-men were other than Chaambra. Their tents spread out from the small oasis far into the desert and hammada, the rocky uplands between the mountains.

There were religious speakers everywhere, with varying sized crowds of listeners, the numbers seemingly dependent upon just how hysterical the marabout or muezzin might be. Those who frothed at the mouth, rolled their bloodshot eyes up to the point of disappearance and jerked uncontrollably, were highest in demand. As the Americans drove on, their windows rolled up to make identification more difficult, they even passed dancing, spinning and whirling dervishes, going through their ecstatic, violent dancing and pirouetting, together with howling dervishes with their vociferous chanting and shouting.

“Beats a state fair all hollow,” Cliff muttered unhappily. “Why the hell didn’t I become a garbage man like my sainted mother wanted? Do you know what a garbage man makes in San Francisco these days?”

Nobody bothered to answer him. Bey and Kenny looked as glum as he did. Homer was inwardly rehearsing his speech to come.

The djemaa el kebar pavilion, a large, ornate awning strung on a dozen sturdy posts, was located on the far side of the oasis, at a point where the craggy, black hammada came down to its edge. Heavy rugs covered the sands beneath it and leather hassocks, in yellow, green and red, those thick, heavy cushions preferred to chairs in desert lands, provided seating for the chiefs and other assembled dignitaries. Amidst the hassocks were scattered narghileh water pipes and brass dishes of dried dates for refreshment.

Obviously, the djemaa el kebar was already in session.

A considerable number of other vehicles were in the encampment, including desert trucks and buses, which had evidently brought in pilgrims and the curious from considerable distances, so the new vehicle was not as out of the way as all that, despite the fact that it was the only hoverlorry represented. The native-owned transportation was aged, rusted, weathered and battered.

Homer Crawford was able to drive up to the entry of the open pavilion, to stop there, drop the lift lever of the vehicle and let it flatten to the sand. The four of them got out, their Tommy-Noiseless, .10 caliber submachine guns, with their clips of two hundred rounds of high-velocity explosive shells, slung over their shoulders.

The entry was guarded by two Chaambra tribesmen. One bore a World War Two .30 caliber carbine. The other had an anachronistic muzzle loading musket with its six foot long barrel, made a century and more before to be especially adapted to firing from camel back. It would have brought several hundred dollars from any collector in Common Europe or America, enough to have bought the bearer a few of the latest model automatic rifles.

To the right of the entry, about ten yards, was the iron bird-cage the four newcomers had heard about. It was hanging from a wooden tripod of stakes dug into the sand, and in it was Elmer Allen. He was nude and filthy beyond description.

His head was bare to the Sahara sun and his cracked lips were thick with sun sores. His eyes were bleary with exhaustion but he was able to look up and mutter, “It’s about time you chaps got here.”

Homer Crawford could feel a well of nausea inside but he played the role of El Hassan and looked straight ahead. Bey gave Elmer a quick nod and Kenny gave him a wink which he probably couldn’t see, but no one spoke to him.

The two guards looked hesitant and confused at the determined march of the four and did nothing to halt them. Already a crowd was gathering behind, most of them armed warriors of the Chaambra. Within moments, there would be thousands. The murmur was going through them, El Hassan… El Hassan … El Hassan …

The chiefs and headmen of the djemaa el kebar , in session, were seated in a half circle. All of them were elderly, save one, all dressed in ceremonial desert garb. In the center position sat El Aicha. As a chief of Maraboutic ancestry and hence a holy man as well as the elder of the Ouled Fredj tribe of the Chaambra, he presided. So old as to look senile—he wasn’t, as Homer well knew.

But to his dismay, Homer Crawford recognized Abd-el-Kader seated in the place of honor next to El Aicha. This could only mean that his claim to being the mahdi was being recognized, or was about to be. The young warrior chieftain was attempting to suppress his satisfaction at seeing El Hassan and three of his closest adherents in this spider’s web. Abd-el-Kader was a perfect figure of desert man. His eyes were those of the Sahara hawk, piercing and aggressive. His posture was straight and strong. From his turban, white as the snows of the Atlas, to his yellow leather boots, he wore the traditional clothing of the Chaambra and wore them with pride. Beneath his white burnoose he wore a gandoura of lightweight woolen cloth and beneath that a longish undershirt of white cotton, similar to that of the Tuareg but with shorter and less voluminous sleeves.

Bey, Kenny and Cliff came to a respectful halt but Homer Crawford took another two steps forward. He touched forehead, lips and heart in the graceful gesture of greeting and said, “ Aselamu, Alekum, O El Aicha , May your life be as long and lustrous as the beard of the Prophet.” He then turned to the chieftains to the left and right of the aged desert leaders and saluted them as well. “ Ssalam-o ’alaykoom .”

El Aicha hesitated but then made standard greeting in reply. “Salaam Aleikum, O El Hassan, and what will you here at the great ekhwan of your… enemies?”

Homer looked at him evenly and said, “O El Aicha, as each man knows, there are no enemies of El Hassan amongst the true dwellers of the Sahara. Only a few false pretenders who stand in the way of the great movement to bind together all Ifriqiyah. And it is to confront such pretenders and great liars that El Hassan and his three most trusted viziers have come.”

Abd-el-Kader had had enough. His face suffused with anger now, he came to his feet. He said, snarl in his voice, “Verily, he who names himself El Hassan is audacious. Wallahi ! But as all men can see, he has placed himself at the mercy of the Chaambra and who among us can feel mercy for this Son of Shaitan?”

Homer Crawford didn’t deign to look at him. Instead, his eyes were level on those of El Aicha. He said, “As before, O El Aicha, we demand the right of strangers in your camp to a trial by combat to determine who are false, El Hassan and his followers, or the self-proclaimed mahdi, who opposes the uniting of all the lands and the bringing of the blessings of Allah to all the people.”