Mack Reynolds - Border, Breed Nor Birth

Homer said, “So have the other members of my former Reunited Nations team. That’s where those books you found came from. Elmer, Bey, Kenny—and Abe—and I used to play around with it when we were out in the desert, just to kill time. We also used it as sort of a secret language when we wanted to communicate and didn’t know if those around us might understand some English.”

“I still don’t get the picture,” Cliff argued. “If we picked the most common half a dozen languages in the territory we cover, then millions of these people wouldn’t have to study a second language. But if you adapt Esperanto as an official language then everybody is going to have to learn something new. And that’s not going to be easy for our ninety-five percent illiterate followers.”

Isobel said thoughtfully, “Well, it’s a darn sight easier to learn Esperanto than any other language we decided to make official.”

“Why?” Cliff said argumentatively.

Jack Peters took over. “Because it’s almost unbelievably easy to learn. English, by the way, is extremely difficult. For instance, spelling and pronunciation are absolutely phonetic in Esperanto and there are only five vowel sounds, whereas most national languages have twenty or so. And each sound in the alphabet has one sound only and any sound is always rendered by the same letter.”

Dave Moroka said, “Actually, I don’t know anything at all about this Esperanto.”

The West Indian took him in with a dominating glance. “Take grammar and syntax, which can take up volumes in other languages. Esperanto has exactly sixteen short rules. And take vocabularies. For instance, in English we often form the feminine of a noun by adding ess—actor-actress, tiger-tigress. But not always. We don’t say bull-bulless or ghost-ghostess. In Esperanto you simply add the feminine ending to any noun—there’s no exception to any rule.”

Jack Peters was caught up in his subject. “Still comparing it to English, realize that spelling and pronunciation in English are highly irregular and one letter can have several different sounds, and one sound may be represented by different letters. And there are even silent letters which are written but not pronunced like the ugh in though. There are none of these irregularities in Esperanto. And the sounds are all sharp with none of such subtle differences as, say, bed-bad-bard-bawd, that sort of thing.”

Jimmy Peters said, “The big item is that any averagely intelligent person can begin speaking Esperanto within a few hours. Within a week of even moderate study, say three or four hours a day, he’s astonishingly fluent.”

Isobel said thoughtfully, “There’d be international advantages. It’s always been a galling factor in Africans dealing with Europeans that they had to learn the European language involved. You couldn’t expect your white man to learn kitchen kaffir, or Swahili, or whatever, not when you got on the diplomatic level.”

Cliff Jackson was thinking out loud. “So far, El Hassan is an unknown. Rumor has it that he’s everything from a renegade Egyptian, to an escaped Mau-Mau chief, to a Senegalese sergeant formerly in the French West African forces. But when he starts running into the press and they find that Homer and his closest associates all speak English, and most of them with an American accent, there’s going to be some fat in the fire.”

“And El Hassan will have lost some of his mysterious glamor,” Homer added thoughtfully.

Even Moroka, the South African, was beginning to accept the idea. “If El Hassan, himself, refused in the presence of foreigners ever to speak anything but Esperanto, the aura of mystery would continue.”

Jimmy Peters, elaborating and obviously pushing an opinion he and his brother had already discussed, said, “We make it a rule that every school, both locally taught and foreign, must teach Esperanto as a required subject. All El Hassan governmental affairs would be conducted in that language. Anybody at all trying to get anywhere in the new regime would have to learn the official inter-African tongue.”

“Oh, brother,” Cliff groaned, “that means me.” He brightened. “We haven’t any books or anything, as yet.”

Isobel laughed at him. “I’ll take on your studies, Cliff. We have a few books. Those that Homer and his team used to kill time with. And as soon as we’re in a position to make requests for foreign aid of the great powers, Esperanto grammars, dictionaries and so forth can be high on the list.”

With a sharp cry, almost a bark, a figure jumped into the entrance and with a bound into the center of the tent, submachine gun in hand. “ All right, everybody. On your feet. The place is raided!”

Dave Moroka leaped to his feet, his hand tearing with blurring speed for his holstered hand gun. “Where’s that bodyguard?” he yelled.

“Hold it,” Homer Crawford roared, jumping to his own feet and grabbing the South African in his arms. He glared at the newcomer. “Kenny, you idiot, you’re lucky you don’t have a couple of holes in you.”

Kenny Ballalou, grinning widely, stared at Dave Moroka. “Jeepers,” he said, “you got that gun out fast. Don’t you ever stick ‘em up when somebody has the drop on you?”

Dave Moroka relaxed, the sidearm dropping back into its holster. Homer Crawford released him, and the South African ran a hand over his mouth and shook his head ruefully at Kenny.

Isobel and Cliff crowded up, the one to kiss Kenny happily, the other to pound him on the back.

Homer made introductions to Dave Moroka and the Peters brothers.

“I’ve told you about Kenny,” he wound it up. “I sent him over to the west to raise a harka of Nemadi to help in taking Tamanrasset.” He joined Cliff Jackson in giving the smaller man an affectionate blow on the shoulder. “What luck did you have, Kenny?”

Kenny Ballalou rubbed himself ruefully. “If you two will stop beating, I’ll tell you. I didn’t recruit a single Nemadi.”

Homer Crawford looked at him.

Kenny said to the tent at large. “Anybody got a drink around here? Good grief, have I been covering ground.”

Isobel bustled off to a corner where she’d amassed most of their remaining European-type supplies, but she kept her attention on him.

Dave Moroka said, his voice unbelieving, “You mean you haven’t brought any assistance at all?”

Kenny grinned around at them. “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t recruit any of the Nemadi. I never even got as far as their territory.”

Homer Crawford sank back onto the small crate he’d been using as a chair before Kenny’s precipitate entrance. “O.K.,” he said, “stop dramatizing and let us know what happened.”

Kenny spread his hands in a sweeping gesture. “The country’s alive from here to Bidon Cinq and south to the Niger. Bourem and Gao have gone over to El Hassan and a column of followers was descending on Niamey. They should be there by now. I never got as far as Nemadi country. I could have recruited ten thousand fighting men, but I didn’t know what we’d do with them in this country. So I weeded through everybody who volunteered and took only veterans. Men who’d formerly been in the French forces, or British, or whatever. Louis Wallington and his team were in Bourem when I got there and…”

“Who is Louis Wallington?” Jack Peters said.

Homer looked over at the Peters brothers and Dave Moroka. “Head of a six-man Sahara Development Project team like the one I used to head.” His eyes went back to Kenny. “What about Louis?”

“He’s come in with us. Didn’t know how to get in touch, so he was working on his own. And Pierre Dupaine. Remember him, the fellow from Guadeloupe in the French West Indies, used to be an operative of the African Affairs sector of the French Community? Well, he and a half-dozen of his colleagues have come in and were leading an expedition on Timbuktu. But Timbuktu had already joined up too, before they got there.”