Mack Reynolds - Border, Breed Nor Birth

“La Bas, El Hassan,” he said through the cloth that covered his mouth.

Homer Crawford was taken aback but covered the fact. “There is no evil,” he repeated the traditional greeting. “But why do you name me El Hassan?”

A dozen veiled desert men, all with the Tuareg sword, several with modern rifles, had formed behind the Tuareg chief.

Melchizedek made a movement of hand to mouth, in a universal gesture of amusement. “Ah, El Hassan,” he said, “you forget you left me the magical instrument of the Roumi.”

Crawford was mystified, but he stood in silence. What the Tuareg paramount chief said now made considerable difference. As he recalled his former encounter with the Ahaggar leader, the other had been neither friendly nor antagonistic to the Reunited Nations team Crawford had headed in their role as itinerant desert smiths.

The Amenokal said, “Enter then my tent, El Hassan, and meet my chieftains. We would confer with you.”

The first obstacle was cleared. Subduing a sigh of relief, Homer Crawford turned to Cliff. “This, O Amenokal of all the Ahaggar, is Clif ben Jackson, my Vizier of Finance.”

The Amenokal bowed his head slightly, said, “ La Bas .”

Cliff could go that far in the Tuareg tongue. He said, “ La Bas.”

The Amenokal said, looking at Isobel, “I hear that in the lands of the Roumi women are permitted in the higher councils.”

Homer said steadily, “This I have also been amazed to hear. However, it is fitting that my followers remain here while El Hassan discusses matters of the highest importance with the Amenokal and his chieftains. This is the Sitt Izubahil, high in the councils of her people due to the great knowledge she has gained by attending the new schools which dispense rare wisdom, as all men know.”

The Amenokal courteously said, “ La Bas,” but Isobel held her peace in decency amongst men of chieftain rank.

When Homer and the Tuaregs had disappeared into the tent, she said to Cliff, “Stick by the car, I’m going to circulate among the women. Women are women everywhere. I’ll pick up the gossip, possibly get something Homer will miss in there.”

A group of Tuareg women and children, the latter stark naked, had gathered to gape at the strangers. Isobel moved toward them and began immediately to break the ice.

Under his breath, Cliff muttered, “What a gal. Give her a few hours and she’ll form a Lady’s Aid branch, or a bridge club, and where else is El Hassan going to pick up so much inside information?”

The tent, which was of the highly considered mouflon skins, was mounted on a wooden frame which consisted of two uprights with a horizontal member laid across their tops. The tent covering was stretched over this framework with its back and sides pegged down and the front, which faced south, was left open. It was ten feet deep, fifteen feet wide and five feet high in the middle.

The men entered and filed to the right of the structure where sheepskins and rugs provided seating. The women and children, who abided ordinarily to the left side, had vanished for this gathering of the great.

They sat for a time and sipped at green tea, syrup sweet with mint and sugar, the tiny cups held under the teguelmoust so as not to obscenely reveal the mouth of the drinker.

Finally, Homer Crawford said, “You spoke of the magical instrument of the Roumi which I gave you as gift, O Amenokal, and named me El Hassan.”

Several of the Tuareg chuckled beneath their veils, but Crawford could read neither warmth nor antagonism in their amusement.

The elderly Melchizedek nodded. “At first we were bewildered, O El Hassan, but then my sister’s son, Guémama, fated perhaps one day to become chief of the Kel Rela and Amenokal of all the Ahaggar, recalled the tales told by the storytellers at the fire in the long evenings.”

Crawford looked at him politely.

Melchizedek’s laugh was gentle. “But each man has heard, in his time, O El Hassan, of the ancient Calif Haroud El Raschid of Baghdad.”

Crawford’s mind went into high gear as the story began to come back to him. From second into high gear, and he could have blessed these bedouin for handing him a piece of publicity gobbledygook worthy of Fifth Avenue’s top agency.

He held up a hand as though in amusement at being discovered. “Wallahi, O Amenokal, you have discovered my secret. For many months I have crossed the deserts disguised as a common Enaden smith to seek out all the people and to learn their wishes and their needs.”

“Even as Haroud el Raschid in the far past,” one of the subchiefs muttered in satisfaction, “used to disguise himself as a lowborn dragoman and wander the streets of Baghdad.”

“But how did you recognize me?” Homer said.

The Amenokal said in reproof, “But verily, your name is on all lips. The Roumi have branded you common criminal. You are to be seized on sight and great reward will be given he who delivers you to the authorities.” He spoke without inflection, and Crawford could read neither support nor animosity—nor greed for the reward offered by El Hassan’s enemies. He gathered the impression that the Tuareg chief was playing his cards close to his chest.

“And what else do they say?”

The elderly Melchizedek went on slowly, “They say that El Hassan is in truth a renegade citizen of a faraway Roumi land and that he attempts to build a great confederation in North Africa for his own gain.”

One of the others chuckled and said, “The Roumi on the magical instrument are indeed great liars as all can see.”

Homer looked at him questioningly.

The other said, laughing, “Who has ever heard of a black Roumi? And you, O El Hassan, are as black as a Bela.”

The Amenokal finished off the mystery of Crawford’s recognition. “Know, El Hassan, that whilst you were here before, one of the slaves that served you for pay shamelessly looked upon your face in the privacy of your tent. It was this slave who recognized your face when the Roumi presented it on the magic instrument, calling upon all men to see you and to brand you enemy.”

So that was it. The Reunited Nations, and probably all the rest, had used their radio and TV stations to broadcast a warning and offer a reward for Homer and his followers. Old Sven was losing no time. This wasn’t so good. A Tuareg owes allegiance to no one beyond clan, tribe and confederation. All others are outside the pale and any advantage, monetary or otherwise, to be gained by exploiting a stranger is well within desert mores.

He might as well bring it to the point. Crawford said evenly, “And I have entered your camp alone except for two followers. Your people are many. So why, O Amenokal, have you not seized me for the reward the Roumi offer?”

There was a moment of silence and Homer Crawford sensed that the subchieftains had leaned forward in anticipation, waiting for their leader’s words. Possibly they, too, could not understand.

The Tuareg leader finished his tea.

“Because, El Hassan, we yet have not heard the message which the Roumi are so anxious that you not be allowed to bring the men of the desert. The Roumi are great liars, and great thieves, as each man knows. In the memory of those still living, they have stolen of the bedouin and robbed him of land and wealth. So now we would hear of what you say, before we decide.”

“Spoken like a true Amenokal, a veritable Suliman ben Davud,” Homer said with a heartiness he could only partly feel. At least they were open to persuasion.

For a long moment he stared down at the rug upon which they sat, as though deep in contemplation.

“These words I speak will be truly difficult to hear and accept, O men of the veil,” he said at last. “For I speak of great change, and no man loves change in the way of his life.”