Mack Reynolds - The Best Ye Breed

“I never looked at it that way,”Lon said grudgingly.

“That’s what El Hassan is all about,” Isobel told him. “We’re trying to bring the blacks up to their rightful place in the world, a place the other races have usurped from us. We weren’t born to be the slaves of others, they shot us into that position with their superior weapons and their dedication to conquest.”

The sergeant said slowly, “They kind of like this El Hassan cat around here, don’t they?”

Isobel said, “Yes. The El Hassan movement is the dream.”

They had reached the fort.

Lon said, “I’d like to talk to you some more about this some time, Miss Cunningham.”

She grinned at him. “Isobel,” she said. “We Jerseyites have to stick together, Lon.” Then she looked at him and said, “You’re not as uneducated as you put on. How did you have any ideas on the origins of civilization? Whether or not I agree with them.”

“You get a lot of time to read, layin’ around in hospitals, or prison camps, or even barracks, between scraps,” he told her.

They separated at the gate and Isobel headed for the administration building, dreading whatever new crises might have accumulated in the hour she had been away.

She wished, all over again, that Homer, Kenny, Bey and Cliff would get back—and Elmer Allen with them. They’d been gone a couple of weeks now. As prearranged, there had been no communication. They were equipped with fairly efficient transceivers, but in the world of espionage-counter-espionage that prevailed today, you could never know whether or not your messages were being intercepted. And Homer wanted no word to go ahead that he was on his way to Elmer’s rescue. Surprise meant everything. North Africa was awash these days with rumors about El Hassan and all that pertained to him but in the last forty-eight hours in Tamanrasset they had received some broadcasts that they’d had difficulty in interpreting. The religious movement of the mahdi had been in the ascendency only a few days ago, now it seemed to be in collapse. Why?

A voice said, “Ah, good afternoon, Mademoiselle Cunningham.”

She turned to find Captain Raul Bazaine. He smiled his gallant Frenchman’s smile and touched the duckbill of his desert cap in an easy salute, making a slight bow.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” Isobel said, turning and continuing on her way toward the administration building, knowing that he would fall in step beside her.

When he did, she said, “Are your quarters adequate—considering the circumstances?”

He smiled ruefully. “I am a soldier, Mademoiselle. Even a roof is sometimes a luxury.”

Isobel said, “If you would rather, we can speak French.”

“Ah, no. I consider English a most beautiful language.”

In spite of his tendency toward what Meg McDaid would probably call blarney, Isobel didn’t mind the other’s company. It was something of a relief to speak to an educated person outside the El Hassan circle, for a change.

She said, in an easy mockery, “I thought that you French considered your language the only cultivated and beautiful one extant.”

He held his right hand over his heart as though in dismay. “Oh, no… Isobel. English had the most beautiful phrase any language in the world.”

She looked at him. “It has? What?”

“Cellar door.”

She laughed and said, “You fool.”

He laughed too and said, “How long do you think it will be before it will be possible to have an audience with El Hassan?”

She shook her head and made a moue. “We have no idea of just when he might return.”

He eyed her and cocked his head a little. “Return? Then he is away?”

She covered quickly, and perhaps too quickly, since there was a questioning look in his eye. “As I’ve already told you, El Hassan has withdrawn into the erg to a secluded spot where he and his closest aides can confer without hindrance.”

He dropped the subject and looked about the enclosed parade ground and the building which surrounded it. “It must be a dreary place for such a beautiful, vivacious young lady. What do you do for entertainment?”

“Work,” she said. “When you are involved in an inspirational program such as that of El Hassan, work becomes recreation.”

They had arrived at her destination and come to a halt.

“Ah,” he said, smiling his charm again. “But isn’t there an American saying beginning all work and no play …”

And she smiled at him again, mockingly. “Yes, but this particular work is far from dull. Good afternoon, Captain.”

He made a face of great sadness. “But never-the-less, Madamoiselle, if you find yourself in need of a bit of relaxation—I am most available.”

He touched his finger to his cap again in salute, and turned and headed back for where the soldiers of fortune had pitched their tents.

She looked after him in deprecation. “I’ll just bet you’re available,” she murmured under her breath.

When Megan McDaid was admitted to Doctor Warren Harding Smythe’s office the following day, it was to find that both Isobel Cunningham and Jimmy Peters were also present. James Peters, whom she found a small, chunky, rather colorless, though energetic man, had been introduced to her as El Hassan’s Vizier of Education, though evidently he was not important enough in the hierarchy to be attending this mysterious inner conference that his leader was holding somewhere. However, from what little Meg had seen, the duties of El Hassan’s people seemed somewhat elastic. Isobel Cunningham, supposedly his secretary, was making important decisions that would ordinarily pertain to press secretary, through minister of war, to commissioner of foreign affairs. Meg wondered how many of the black girl’s decisions would be backed by the ruthless El Hassan when he did reappear.

They went through the standard amenities and then Doctor Smythe said, “Please have a chair, Doctor. What can I do for you?”

Meg sat and said, “It occurs to me that I might put my time to some use while my group is waiting. From what little I have seen, you can utilize anyone with medical background, though I am taken aback by some of the outdated equipment and treatments you are at present utilizing.”

Jimmy Peters said impatiently, even as he pushed his old fashioned spectacles back on the bridge of his nose, “That will soon be remedied. Admittedly, we are stretching out impossibly now, but large quantities of the most recent equipment are on their way.” His small smile was deprecating. “You see, every pharmaceutical house, every medical and dental supply house in America, Common Europe, the Soviet Complex and Japan are urging their credit upon us.”

Meg couldn’t help but frown puzzlement. “Well, why?”

Isobel laughed softly “Because they can see what a potential market we will become and each wants to corner it.”

“It would involve millions to make a dent upon your requirements,” Meg said. “Through the two thousand or so miles we drove to arrive here, I saw the state of medical needs throughout North Africa.”

Jimmy Peters nodded. “Millions is stating it mildly, Doctor McDaid. However, one financial offer we received yesterday involved a half billion dollars, American, for a monopoly to exploit the oil and natural gas resources of Senegal alone.”

“Half a billion dollars!” Meg protested. “But are you even in control of Senegal?”

“Practically all of it save Dakar,” Isobel said, “and that city should come over to us before the week is out. However, I doubt if El Hassan is interested in the offer.” She paused a moment before adding, “Or any other that involves foreign exploitation of Ifriqiyah’s raw materials.”