Mack Reynolds - Border, Breed Nor Birth

Homer Crawford let his eyes go from one of them to the next, and his personality continued to dominate them.

The Amenokal ran his thin, aged hand through the length of his white beard beneath his teguelmoust and contemplated this stranger come out of the ergs to lead his people to still greater changes than those they had thus far rebelled against.

Crawford realized that the Targui was divided in opinion and inwardly the American was in a cold sweat. But his voice registered only supreme confidence. “Under my banner, all North Africa will be welded into one. And all the products of the land will be available in profusion to my faithful followers. The finest wheat for cous cous from Algeria and Tunis, the finest dates and fruits from the oases to the north, the manufactured products of the factories of Dakar and Casablanca. For Africa has always been a poor land but will become a rich one with the new machines and techniques that I will bring.”

The Amenokal raised a hand to stem the tide of oratory. “And what do you ask of us now, El Hassan?”

Instead of to the older man, Crawford turned his eyes to the face of Guémama, the leader of the young clansmen. “Now my people are gathering to establish the new rule. Teda from the east, Chaambra from the north, Sudanese from the south, Nemadi, Moors and Rifs from the west. We rendezvous in ten days from now at Tamanrasset where the Arab Legion dogs have seized the city, as they wish to seize all the lands of the Sahara and Sudan for the corrupt Arab Union politicians.”

Crawford came to his feet. His voice took on an edge of command. “You will address your scouts and warriors and each will ride off on the swiftest camels at your command to raise the Tuareg tribes. And the clans of the Kel Rela will unite with the Taitoq and the Tégéhé Mellet in a great harka at this point and we will ride together to sweep the Arab Legion from the lands of El Hassan.”

Guémama was on his feet, too. “Bilhana!” he roared. “With joy!”

The others were arising in excitement, all but Melchizedek, who still stroked his gray-streaked beard beneath his teguelmoust. The Amenokal had seen much of desert war in his day and knew the horror of the new weapons possessed by the crack troops of the Arab Legion.

But his aged shoulders shrugged against the inevitable.

Crawford said, the ring of authority in his voice, “What does the Amenokal of all the Ahaggar say?” He had no intention of antagonizing the Tuareg chief by going over his head and directly to the people.

“Thou art El Hassan,” Melchizedek said, his voice low, “and undoubtedly it is fated that the Tuareg follow you, for verily there is no way else to go, as each man knows.”

“Wallahi!” Guémama crowed jubilantly.

Guémama, nephew of Melchizedek the Amenokal of the Ahaggar Tuareg confederation and fighting chief of the Kel Rela clan of the Kel Rela tribe, brought his hejin racing camel to an abrupt halt with a smack of his mish’ab camel stick. He barked, “ Adar-ya-yan,” in command to bring it to its knees, and slid to the ground before his mount had groaned its rocking way to the sand.

The Tarqui was jubilant. His dark eyes sparked above his teguelmoust veil and he presented himself before Homer Crawford with the elan of a Napoleonic cavalryman before his emperor. Were red leather fil fil boots capable of producing a clicking of heels, that sound would have rung.

Crawford said with dignity, “Aselamu, Aleikum, Guémama. Greeting to you.”

“Salaam Aleikum,” the tribesman got out breathlessly. “Your message spreads, O El Hassan. My men ride to eastward and westward and never a tent from here to Silet, from In Guezzam to Timissao but knows that El Hassan calls. The Taitoq and the Tégéhé Mellet ride!”

Homer Crawford was standing before the hovercraft. The Amenokal’s tribesmen had set up two large goat leather tents for his use and the three Americans had largely withdrawn to their shelter. Crawford was aware of the dangers of familiarity.

Cliff Jackson, who as usual had been monitoring the radio, came from the hover-lorry and growled, “What’s he saying?”

“The tribesmen are gathering as per instructions,” Homer said in English.

Jackson grunted, somewhat self-conscious of the Targui’s admiring gaze. The Tuareg is the handsomest physical specimen of North Africa, often going to six foot of wiry manhood, but there was nothing in all the Sahara to rival the build of Homer Crawford, not to speak of the giant Cliff Jackson.

Crawford turned back to the Tuareg chieftain. “You please me well, O Guémama. Know that I have been in conference with my viziers on the Roumi device which enables one to speak great distances and that we have decided that you are to head all the fighting clans of the Ahaggar, and that you will ride at the left hand of El Hassan, as shield on shoulder rides.”

The Targui, overwhelmed, made adequate pledges of fidelity, flowering words of thanks, and then hurried off to inform his fellow tribesmen of his appointment.

Isobel emerged from her tent. She looked at Homer obliquely, the sides of her mouth turning down. “As shield on shoulder rides,” she translated from the Tamaheq Berber tongue into English. “Hm-m-m.” She cast her eyes upward in memory. “You aren’t plagiarizing Kipling, are you?”

Crawford grinned at her. “These people like a well-turned phrase.”

“And who could turn them better than Rudyard?” she said. Her voice dropped the bantering tone. “What’s this bit about making Guémama warchief of the Tuareg? Isn’t he on the young and enthusiastic side?”

Cliff scowled. “You mean that youngster? Why, he can’t be more than in his early twenties.”

Crawford was looking after the young Targui who was disappearing into his uncle’s tent on the far side of the rapidly growing encampment.

“You mean the age of Napoleon in the Italian campaign, or Alexander at Issus?” he asked. Isobel began to respond to that, but he shook his head. “He’s the Amenokal’s nephew, and traditionally would probably get the position anyway. He’s the most popular of the young tribesmen, and it’s going to be they who do the fighting. Having the appointment come from El Hassan, and at this early point, will just bind him closer. Besides that, he’s a natural born warrior. Typical. Enthusiastic, bold, brave and with the military mind.”

“What’s a military mind?” Cliff said.

“He can take off his shirt without unbuttoning his collar,” Homer told him.

“Very funny,” Cliff grumbled.

Isobel turned to the big Californian. “What’s on the radio, Cliff?”

“Let’s go get a cup of coffee,” he said. “All hellza-poppin.”

They went into the larger of the two Tuareg tents, and Isobel poured water from a girba into the coffeepot which she placed on a heat unit, flicking its switch. She said sarcastically, from the side of her mouth, “A message, O El Hassan, from the Department of Logistics, subdepartment Commissary of Headquarters of the Commander in Chief. Unless you get around to capturing some supplies in the near future, your food is going to be prepared over a camel dung fire. This heat unit is fading out on me.”

“Don’t bother me with trivialities,” Homer told her. “I’ve got big things on my mind.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Hm-m-m. Such as what?”

“Such as whether to put my face on the postage stamps profile or full.”

She said, under her breath, “I shoulda known. Already, delusions of grandeur.”

“Holy mackerel,” Cliff protested. “Aren’t we ever serious around this place? You two will wind up gagging with the firing squad.”

Crawford chuckled softly but let his face go serious. “Sorry, Cliff. What’s on your mind?”