Mack Reynolds - Border, Breed Nor Birth

Rex Donaldson brought them up to the tent, saying, “I didn’t think you chaps were quite so close.”

Homer, Cliff and Isobel faced the new recruits. The three were dressed in khaki bushshirts, shorts and heavy walking shoes—British style. Two were so obviously relatives that they could have been twins except for an age discrepancy of two or three years. They were smaller than the Americans present, almost chunky, but their faces held education and cultivation. The third was slight of build, almost as wiry as Rex Donaldson, and seemed ever at ease.

The small, bent Bahaman made introductions. “Gentlemen, let me present El Hassan—Homer Crawford to you—formerly of the Reunited Nations African Development Project, formerly of the United States of the Americas.” His face twisted in his sour grimace of a grin. “Now running for the office of tyrant of North Africa.

“And these are two of his original and most trusted adherents, Isobel Cunningham and Cliff Jackson.” Donaldson turned to the newcomers. “John and James Peters—that’s Jack and Jimmy, of course—recently colleagues of mine with the African Department of the Commonwealth, working largely in the Nigeria area.”

Homer shook hands, grinning. “You’re a long way from home.”

“Farther than that,” the one labeled Jack said without a smile changing the seriousness of his face. “We’re originally from Trinidad.”

Donaldson said, “And this is David Moroka, late of South Africa.”

The wiry South African said easily, “Not so very late. In fact, I haven’t seen Jo-burg since I was a boy.”

He was shaking hands with Isobel now. “Jo-burg?” she said.

“Johannesburg,” he translated. “I got out by the skin of my teeth during the troubles in the 1950s.”

“You sound like an American,” Cliff said when it was his turn to shake.

“Educated in the States,” Moroka said. “Best thing that ever happened to me was to be kicked out of the land of my birth.”

Homer made a sweeping gesture at the floor and the few articles of furniture the tent contained that could be improvised as chairs. “I’m surprised you’re up here instead of in your own neck of the woods,” he said to the South African.

Moroka shrugged. “I was considering heading south when I ran into Jimmy and Jack here. They’d already got the word on the El Hassan movement from Rex. Their arguments made sense to me.”

Eyes went to the brothers from Trinidad and Jack Peters took over the position of spokesman. He said, seriously, as though trying to convince the others, “North Africa is the starting point, the beginning. Given El Hassan’s success in uniting North Africa, the central areas and later even the south will fall into line. Perhaps one day there will be a union of all Africa.”

“Or at least a strong confederation,” Jimmy Peters added.

Homer nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps. But we can’t look that far forward now.” He looked from one of the newcomers to the other. “I don’t know to what extent you fellows understand what the rest of us have set out to accomplish, but I suppose if you’ve been with Rex for the past week you have a fairly clear idea.”

“I believe so,” Jack nodded, straight-faced.

Homer Crawford said slowly, “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. If you join up, you’ll find it’s no parade. Our chances were slim to begin with, and we’ve had some setbacks. As you’ve probably heard, the Arab Union has stolen a march on us. And from what we can get on the radio, we have thus far to pick up a single adherent among the world powers.”

“Powers?” Cliff snorted. “We haven’t got a nation the size of Monaco on our side.”

Moroka shot a quick glance at the big Californian.

Isobel caught it and laughed. “Cliffs a perpetual sour-puss,” she said. “However, he’s been in since the first.”

The South African looked at her in turn. “We were hardly prepared to find a beautiful American girl in the Great Erg,” he said.

Something about his voice caused her to flush. “We’ve all caught Homer’s dream,” she said, almost defensively.

David Moroka flung to his feet, viper fast, and dashed toward Homer Crawford, his hands extended.

Automatically, Cliff Jackson stuck forward a foot in an attempt to trip him—and missed.

The South African, moving with blurring speed, grasped the unsuspecting Crawford by the right hand and arm, swung with fantastic speed and sent the American sprawling to the far side of the tent.

Homer Crawford, old in rough-and-tumble, was already rolling out. Before the inertia of his fall had given away, his right hand, only a split second before in the grip of the other, was fumbling for the 9 mm noiseless holstered at his belt.

Rex Donaldson, a small hand gun magically in his hand, was standing, half-crouched on his thin, bent legs. The two brothers from Trinidad hadn’t moved, their eyes bugging.

Moroka was spinning with the momentum of the sudden attack he’d made on his new chief. Now there was a gun in his own hand and he was darting for the tent opening.

Cliff yelled indignantly, “Stop him!”

Isobel, on her feet by now, both hands to her mouth, was staring at the goatskin tent covering, against which, a moment earlier, Crawford had been gently leaning his back as he talked.

There was a vicious slash in the leather and even as she pointed, the razor-sharp arm dagger’s blade disappeared. There was the sound of running feet outside the tent.

Homer Crawford had assimilated the situation before the rest. He, too, was darting for the tent entrance, only feet behind Moroka.

Donaldson followed, muttering bitterly under his breath, his face twisted more as though in distaste than in fighting anger.

Cliff, too, finally saw light and dashed after the others, leaving only Isobel and the Peters brothers. They heard the muffled coughing of a silenced gun, twice, thrice and then half a dozen times, blurting together in automatic fire.

Homer Crawford shuffled through the sand on an awkward run, rounding the tent, weapon in hand.

There was a native on the ground making final spasmodic muscular movements in his death throes, and not more than three feet from him, coolly, David Moroka sat, bracing his elbows on his knees and aiming, two-handed, as his gun emptied itself.

Crawford brought his own gun up, seeking the target, and clipping at the same time, “We want him alive.”

It was too late. Two hundred feet beyond, a running tribesman, long arm dagger still in hand, stumbled, ran another three or four feet with hesitant steps, and then collapsed.

Moroka said, “Too late, Crawford. He would have got away.” The South African started to his feet, brushing sand from his khaki bush shorts.

The others were beginning to come up, and from the Tuareg encampment a rush of Guémama’s men started in their direction.

Crawford said unhappily, looking down at the dead native at their feet, “I hate to see unnecessary killing.”

Moroka looked at him questioningly. “Unnecessary? Another split second and his knife would have been in your gizzard. What do you want to give him, another chance?”

Crawford said uncomfortably, “Thanks, Dave, anyway. That was quick thinking.”

“Thank God,” Donaldson said, coming up, his wrinkled face scowling unhappily, first at the dead man at their feet, and then at the one almost a hundred yards away. “Are these local men? Where were your bodyguards?”

Cliff Jackson skidded to a halt after rounding the tent. He’d heard only the last words. “What bodyguards?” he said.

Moroka looked at Crawford accusingly. “El Hassan,” he said. “Leader of all North Africa. And you haven’t even got around to bodyguards? Do you fellows think you’re playing children’s games? Gentlemen, I assure you, the chips are down.”