Mack Reynolds: The Best Ye Breed

“Get him back to the hut, Kenny,” El Hassan ordered and then returned to Kosloff. He indicated the Japanese, “Who is this man?”

“Tokugawa Hidetada. His government wanted to see the regimes in Algeria and the other so-called socialist nations of North Africa overthrown, but Field Marshal Bey-ag-Akhamouk come to power rather than you.”

Homer snorted at the idea that Bey might be a potential rival, but pointed to the Russian and said, “And this one? We have met him, but who was he really?”

“Sverdlov. Serge Sverdlov, of the KGB. His government wanted to see your revolution a success so that the United States and the West would be economically devastated.”

“I see.” El Hassan looked at Paul Kosloff and Nafi for a long thoughtful moment. He said, “I heard enough of your conversation with the Russian to realize that you are not truly interested in supporting my cause. Perhaps I should kill you, Mr. Kosloff, but I do not kill unarmed men. Please leave. And so far as your nations are concerned, the United States of the Americas, the Soviet Complex, and Japan, all I can do is paraphrase the Engish poet. A curse on all your houses.”

Nafi blurted, “But, El Hassan, we came to assist you.”

“It seems unlikely, boy. Now leave.”

Paul Kosloff and the Moroccan youth returned to their car. In silence they got into it and started back for Tangier.

After a time, Paul Kosloff put his Tracy to his mouth and said, “Paul calling. Paul calling.”

The commissioner’s thin voice came through shortly, “Yes, I receive you. What is happening?”

Paul said flatly, “Everything and its cousin has gone to pot. Sverdlov’s dead. Tokugawa Hidetada, of Japan, is dead. I’m not but probably should be. Your strategy laid an egg. El Hassan will undoubtedly take over here.”

“You fouled this up, Kosloff!”

“It’s according to how you look at it. It was fouled before it started,” Paul Kosloff said wearily. “Oh, yes, and one more thing. I’m tired of being the Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia. It’s getting too complicated for me. I’m resigning.”

Isobel Cunningham was less than happy. Matters were getting out of hand by the hour. She desperately needed the presence of the team and especially Homer Crawford.

It was unbelievable how rapidly things were progressing. Whole tribes that she had never even heard of were coming over to El Hassan en masse. Nations which she knew little more about than their names, were overthrowing their military dictatorships, or their pseudo-socialistic regimes and declaring for El Hassan. And Tamanrasset was the center to which all delegations streamed. She and Jimmy Peters and Doctor Smythe were working like Trojans and none slept for more than a few hours at a time, but seemingly they made little more than a dent on the required work.

The elderly Doctor Smythe put them both to shame. Already matters medical had gotten beyond the point where he, himself, had time to treat patients. Half of Fort Laperrine was already a hospital, staffed almost exclusively with blacks who had taken their medical educations in lands beyond Africa. Smythe now devoted his full energies to administration. When new medical groups centered in on Tamanrasset, seeking instructions from El Hassan, he sent them to other areas to establish hospitals and clinics. To Timbuktu, to Mopti, to Niamey in Niger, to N’Djamena on the shores of Lake Chad. Planes were coming in almost daily with medical and other supplies through the efforts of such pro-El Hassan organizations as the Africa For Africans Association.

Isobel had taken a walk, in an effort to achieve a bit of relaxation, through Tamanrasset, the day before. To her astonishment, she had run into an improvised hospital going up on the edge of the souk . She had never even heard of it. She had approached a white smocked negro doctor, who, in the open, was treating a child that had been bitten by a sand scorpion. The five year old’s fingers were swollen and stiff. Red streaks were visible all the way to its shoulder.

Isobel said, “Who are you?”

And the doctor had replied impatiently, without looking up, “I’m busy.”

Isobel, miffed, had said, “I’m El Hassan’s secretary.”

“I don’t care if you’re the Virgin Mary.” The other came erect and glowered at her. He was a nice looking young man, very sincere. “If there’s anybody in charge around this madhouse get them to requisition some sort of insecticide spray, in the DDT tradition. There’re enough poisonous insects in this damned town to kill off half the human race.” He turned back to his diminutive patient, who was whimpering.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Isobel said, and left.

But in spite of the administrative load on her shoulders she had found time to wonder about Major Ryan and his contingent of mercenaries. Possibly it was woman’s intuition that caused her to feel a twinge of apprehension about the twenty-four whites and one green bereted black who had come out of the desert supposedly seeking employment as bodyguards.

This morning she had arisen at dawn and checked over some odds and ends before the others of the rapidly growing administrative staff had turned up.

When she returned to her quarters, it was to find Megan McDaid, in negligee, at the table in the dining room, enjoying coffee and the local native sweet bread. Isobel wondered wearily how long it had been since she, herself, had been robed in a negligee. She couldn’t remember.

Meg smiled as she looked up at her. “Good morning,” she said. “As a doctor, I prescribe that you get some rest.”

Isobel looked rueful and got a cup and saucer from the side board. She sat down opposite the Irish girl and poured some of the thick coffee for herself, adding sugar liberally in the North African tradition.

She said, “I can see myself in this part of the world, Doctor…”

“Meg,” the other said.

“All right. I’m Isobel. I can see myself here but I wonder why you would ever leave green Ireland for the end of the Earth.”

Meg made a face and said, “Women aren’t popular in the medical field on the Emerald Isle. Bryan and I were hoping to accumulate enough of a nest egg to immigrate to Canada or the United States, where women aren’t ashamed to take off their brassieres in front of another woman, or a man doesn’t give a damn who removes his appendix, just so it’s removed.”

Isobel laughed sympathetically.

Meg said, out of a clear sky, “Isobel, you’re obviously opposed to our coming. Why?” Even as she spoke, inwardly she disliked herself for the position she occupied. But she had already rationalized and now felt she might pick up something, informally, that might be of use to Bryan and Sean, to be used against this brute El Hassan, when he finally appeared on the scene.

Isobel sipped her coffee and looked at the other young woman over the top of her cup. “You’re white and have no place in the new Ifriqiyah,” she said.

Meg frowned. “But there are thousands of whites helping develop North Africa. Mining engineers, oil technicians…”

Isobel was nodding. “But they have no place in North Africa, really, beyond a temporary one. In fact, they all hate it. I wonder if you have ever seen one of these oil camps. They consist of rows of boxlike houses, each with its air-conditioning unit, toilet, shower, bed, armchair, and desk. European food is provided in the mess hall. European news-papers, paperback books and magazines are flown in by the company aircraft. European music and shows are on the radio and TV sets. The only luxuries missing are European women. A week’s vacation every month takes care of that. They are flown back to the Mediterranean cities, or even as far as Paris, and taken to luxury hotels which cater almost exclusively to them. They are engaged, these engineers, mechanics, clerks, administrators and executives, in making their living. They’re not living in the desert from religious, idealistic, or patriotic motives. Isolated within their air-conditioned huts, waiting for the company plane with their fresh supply of orange juice and canned beer, they have no more feeling for the desert around them than the submariner has for the ocean outside the hull of his craft. They can’t wait to get back to their homes, families, and to their civilization. They have no interest in bringing civilization to Ifriqiyah.”