Mack Reynolds - Border, Breed Nor Birth

Rex Donaldson said flatly, “You have just received my resignation, Sir Winton.”

“What… what!”

“You heard me,” Donaldson said.

“But … but what are you going to do?” The heavy face of the African Department head was going a reddish-purple, which rather fascinated Donaldson, but he had no time to further contemplate the phenomenon.

“I’m going to round up a few of my colleagues, of similar mind to my own, and then I’m going to join El Hassan,” the little man snapped. “Good-by, Sir Winton.” He clicked the set off and then looked down at it. His dour face broke into a rare grin. “Now there’s an ambition I’ve had for donkey’s years,” he said aloud. “To hang up on a really big mucky-muck.”

Following the attack of the unidentified rocket craft, El Hassan’s party was twice again nearly flushed by reconnoitering planes of unknown origin. They weren’t making the time they wanted.

Beneath a projecting rock face over a gravel-bottomed wadi, the two hover-lorries were hidden, whilst a slow-moving helio-jet made sweeping, high-altitude circlings above them.

The six stared glumly upward.

Cliff Jackson, who was on the radio, called out, “I just picked him up. He’s called in to Fort Lamy reporting no luck. His fuel’s running short and he’ll be knocking off soon.”

Homer Crawford rapped, “What language?”

“French,” Cliff said, “but it’s not his. I mean he’s not French, just using the language.”

Bey’s face was as glum as any and there was a tic at the side of his mouth. He said now, “We’ve got to come up with something. Sooner or later one of them will spot us and this next time we won’t have any fantastic breaks like Homer being able to knock him off with a Tommy-Noiseless. He’ll drop a couple of neopalms and burn up a square mile of desert including El Hassan and his whole crew.”

Homer looked at him. “Any ideas, Bey?”

“No,” the other growled.

Homer Crawford said, “Any of the rest of you?”

Isobel was frowning, bringing something back. “Why don’t we travel at night?”

“And rest during the day?” Homer said.

Kenny said, “Parking where? We just made it to this wadi. If we’re caught out in the dunes somewhere when one of those planes shows up, we’ve had it. You couldn’t hide a jackrabbit out there.”

But Bey and Homer Crawford were still looking at Isobel.

She said, “I remember a story the Tuaregs used to tell about a raid some of them made back during the French occupation. They stole four hundred camels near Timbuktu one night and headed north. The French weren’t worried. The next morning, they simply sent out a couple of aircraft to spot the Tuareg raiders and the camels. Like Kenny said, you couldn’t hide a jackrabbit in dune country. But there was nothing to be seen. The French couldn’t believe it, but they still weren’t really worried. After all, a camel herd can travel only thirty or so miles a day. So the next day the planes went out again, circling, circling, but they still didn’t spot the thieves and their loot, nor the next day. Well, to shorten it, the Tuareg got their four hundred camels all the way up to Spanish Rio de Oro where they sold them.”

She had their staring attention. “How?” Elmer blurted.

“It was simple. They traveled all night and then, at dawn, buried the camels and themselves in the sand and stayed there all day.”

Homer said, “I’m sold. Boys, I hope you’re in physical trim because there’s going to be quite a bit of digging for the next few days.”

Cliff groaned. “Some Minister of the Treasury,” he complained. “They give him a shovel instead of a bankbook.”

Everyone laughed.

Bey said, “Well, I suppose we stay here until nightfall.”

“Right,” Homer said. “Whose turn is it to pull cook duty?”

Isobel said menacingly, “I don’t know whose turn it is, but I know I’m going to do the cooking. After that slumgullion Kenny whipped up yesterday, I’m a perpetual volunteer for the job of chef—strictly in self-defense.”

“That was a cruel cut,” Kenny protested, “however, I hereby relinquish all my rights to cooking for this expedition.”

“And me!”

“And me!”

“O.K.,” Homer said, “so Isobel is Minister of the Royal Kitchen.” He looked at Elmer Allen. “Which reminds me. You’re our junior theoretician. Are we a monarchy?”

Elmer Allen scowled sourly and sat down, his back to the wadi wall “I wouldn’t think so.”

Isobel went off to make coffee in the portable galley in the rear of the second hovercraft. The others brought forth tobacco and squatted or sat near the dour Jamaican. Years in the desert had taught them the nomad’s ability to relax completely, given opportunity.

“So if it’s not a monarchy, what’ll we call El Hassan?” Kenny demanded.

Elmer said slowly, thoughtfully, “We’ll call him simply El Hassan. Monarchies are of the past, and El Hassan is the voice of the future, something new. We won’t admit he’s just a latter-day tyrant, an opportunist seizing power because it’s there crying to be seized. Actually, El Hassan is in the tradition of Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, or, more recently, Napoleon. But he’s a modern version, and we’re not going to hang the old labels on him.”

Isobel had brought the coffee. “I think you’re right,” she said.

“Sold,” Homer agreed. “So we aren’t a monarchy. We’re a tyranny.” His face had begun by expressing amusement, but that fell off. He added, “As a young sociologist, I never expected to wind up a literal tyrant.”

Elmer Allen said, “Wait a minute. See if I can remember this. Comes from Byron.” He closed his eyes and recited: “The tyrant of the Chersonese 3.5 Was freedom’s best and bravest friend. That tyrant was Miltiades, Oh that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind. Such bonds as his were sure to bind.”

Isobel, pouring coffee, laughed and said, “Why Elmer, who’d ever dream you read verse, not to speak of memorizing it, you old sourpuss.”

Elmer Allen’s complexion was too dark to register a flush.

Homer Crawford said, “Yeah, Miltiades. Seized power, whipped the Athenians into shape to the point where they were able to take the Persians at Marathon, which should have been impossible.” He looked around at the others, winding up with Elmer. “What happened to Miltiades after Marathon and after the emergency was over?”

Elmer looked down into his coffee. “I don’t remember,” he lied.

There was a clicking from the first hover-lorry. Cliff Jackson put down his coffee, groaned his resentment at fate and made his way to the vehicle and the radio there.

Bey motioned with his head. “That’s handy, our still being able to tune in on the broadcasts the African Development Project makes to its teams.”

Kenny said, “Not that what they’ve been saying is much in the way of flattery.”

Bey said, “They seem to think we’re somewhere in the vicinity of Bidon Cinq.”

“That’s what worries me,” Homer growled. He raked his right hand back through his short hair. “If they think we’re in Southern Algeria, what are these planes doing around here? We’re hundreds of miles from Bidon Cinq.”

Bey shot him an oblique glance. “That’s easy. That plane that tried to clobber us, and these others that have been trying to search us out, aren’t really Reunited Nations craft. They’re someone else.”

They all looked at him. “Who?” Isobel said.

“How should I know? It could be almost anybody with an iron in the North African fire. The Soviet Complex? Very likely. The British Commonwealth or the French Community? Why not? There’re elements in both that haven’t really accepted giving up the old colonies and would like to regain them in one way or the other. The Arab Union? Why comment? Common Europe? Oh, Common Europe would love to have a free hand exploiting North Africa.”