Mack Reynolds - Border, Breed Nor Birth

“You’re right,” Homer growled, “but there’s nothing we can do right now but mark time. Irritate the Arabs a bit. Keep them from spreading out.”

Isobel brought coffee, handing around the small Moroccan cups. She said, “Well, one thing is certain. We get supplies soon or start eating jerked goat and camel milk curds.”

Moroka said in irritation, “It’s not funny.”

Isobel raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t mean it to be. Have you ever been on a camel curd diet?”

“Yes, I have,” Moroka said impatiently. He turned back to Homer Crawford. “How about waylaying an armored car or so, just in the way of giving the men something exciting to do?”

Crawford ran a hand back through his short hair. “Confound it, Dave, can you picture what a Recoilless-Brenn gun would do to a harka of our charging camel-men? We can’t let these people be butchered.”

“I wasn’t thinking of wild charges,” Moroka argued.

They had both turned away from Isobel in their discussion. Now she looked at them, strangely. And especially at Homer Crawford. His brusqueness toward her didn’t seem the old Homer.

There was a bustle from outside and a guardsman stuck his head in the tent entrance and reported in Tamaheq that a small camel patrol approached.

The four of them went out. Coming up were a dozen Tuareg and two motor vehicles.

Cliff said, “Something new.”

Moroka said, “We can use the transport.”

“Let’s see who they are, before we start requisitioning their property,” Homer said dryly.

The two desert trucks had hardly come to a halt before the camouflaged tents and hover-lorries of El Hassan’s small encampment before a heavy-set, gray-haired Negro, whose energy belied his weight, bounced down from the seat adjacent to the driver’s in the lead vehicle and stomped belligerently to the group before the tent.

“What is the meaning of this?” he snapped.

Homer Crawford looked at him. “I’m sure I don’t know as yet, Dr. Smythe. Neither you nor these followers of mine have informed me as to what has transpired. Won’t you enter my quarters here and we’ll go into it under more comfortable conditions?” He glanced upward at the midday Saharan sun.

The other seemed taken aback at Crawford calling him by name. He squinted at the man who was seemingly his captor.

“Crawford!” he snapped. “Dr. Homer Crawford! See here, what is the meaning of this?”

Homer said, “Dr. Warren Harding Smythe, may I present Isobel Cunningham, Clifford Jackson and David Moroka, of my staff?”

“Huuumph. I met Miss Cunningham and, I believe, Mr. Jackson at that ridiculous meeting in Timbuktu a short time ago.” The doctor peered over his glasses at Moroka.

The wiry South African nodded his head. “A pleasure, Doctor.” He held open the tent entrance.

Smythe snorted again and stomped inside to escape the sun’s glare.

In the shade of the tent’s interior, Isobel clucked at him and hurried to get a drink of water from a moist water cooler. Homer Crawford motioned the other to a seat and took one himself. “Now then, Dr. Smythe.”

The indignant medic blurted, “Those confounded bandits out there…”

“Irregular camel cavalry,” Crawford amended gently.

“They’ve kidnaped me and my staff. I demand that you intercede, if you have any influence with them.”

“What were you doing?” Crawford was frowning at the other. Actually, he had no idea of the circumstances under which the probably overenthusiastic Tuareg troopers had rounded up the American medical man.

“Doing? You know perfectly well I represent the American Medical Relief. My team has been in the vicinity of Silet, working with the nomads. The country is rife with everything from rickets to syphilis! Eighty percent of these people suffer from trachoma. My team…”

“Just a moment,” Moroka said. “You mean out in those two trucks you have a complete American medical setup? Assistants and all?”

Smythe said stiffly, “I have two American nurses with me and four Algerians recruited in Oran. This sort of interference with my work is insufferable and…”

The South African was staring at Homer Crawford.

Cliff Jackson cleared his throat. “It seems as though El Hassan has just acquired a Department of Health.”

“El Hassan?” Smythe stuttered. “What, what?”

Isobel said softly, “Dr. Smythe, surely you have heard of El Hassan.”

“Heard of him? I’ve heard of nothing else for the past month! Confounded ignorant barbarian. What this part of the world needs is less intertribal, interracial, international fighting, not more. The man’s a raving lunatic and …”

Isobel said gently, “Doctor … may I introduce you to El Hassan?”

“What … what?” For the briefest of moments, there was an element of timorousness in the sputtering doctor’s voice. Then suddenly he comprehended.

He pointed at Homer Crawford accusingly. “You’re El Hassan!”

Homer nodded, seriously, “That’s correct, Doctor.”

The doctor’s eyes went around the four of them. “You’ve done what you were driving at there at that meeting in Timbuktu. You’re trying to unite these people in spite of themselves and then drag them, willy-nilly, into the twentieth century.”

Homer still nodded.

Smythe shook an indignant finger at him. “I told you then, Crawford, and I tell you now. These natives are not suited for such sudden change. Already they are subject to mass neurosis because they cannot adjust to a world that changes too quickly.”

“I wonder if that doesn’t apply to the rest of us as well,” Cliff said unhappily. “But the changes go on, if we like them or not. Can you think of any way to turn them off?”

The doctor snorted.

Homer Crawford said, “Dr. Smythe, the die is already cast. The question now becomes, will you join us?”

“Join you! Certainly not!”

Crawford said evenly, “Then I might suggest that, first, you will not be allowed to operate in my territory.” He considered for a moment, grinning inwardly, but on the surface his expression was serene. He added, “And second, that you will probably have difficulties procuring an exit visa from my domains.”

“Exit visa! Are you jesting? See here, my good man, you realize I am a citizen of the United States of the Americas and . …”

“A country,” Homer yawned, “with which I have not as yet opened diplomatic relations, and hence has little representation in North Africa.”

The doctor was bug-eyeing him. He began sputtering again. “This isn’t funny. You’re an American citizen yourself. And you, Miss Cunningham and…”

Isobel said sadly, “As a matter of fact, the last we heard, the State Department representative told us our passports were invalid.”

Crawford leaned forward. “Look here, Doctor. You don’t see eye to eye with us on matters socio-economic. However, as a medical man, I submit that joining my group—ah, that is, until you can secure an exit visa from my authorities—will give you an excellent opportunity to practice your science here in the Sahara under the wing of El Hassan. I’ll assign a place for your trucks and tents. Please consider the question and let me have your answer at your leisure. Meanwhile, we will prepare a desert feast suitable to the high esteem in which we hold you.”

They looked after the doctor as he left, and Moroka chuckled. However, Isobel was watching Homer Crawford quizzically.

She said finally, “We rode over him a little in the roughshod manner, didn’t we?”

Homer Crawford growled uncomfortably, “Particularly when we finally have our showdown with the Arab Legion, a medic will be priceless.”

Isobel said softly. “And the end justifies the means.”