Mack Reynolds - Border, Breed Nor Birth

“Wow,” Homer said. “It’s really spreading.”

Cliff said, “Why isn’t all this on the radio?”

Isobel had brought Kenny a couple of ounces of cognac from their meager supply. He knocked it back thankfully.

Kenny said to Cliff, “Things are moving too fast, and communications have gone to pot.” He looked at Homer. “Have any of these journalists found you yet?”

“What journalists?”

Kenny laughed. “You’ll find out. Half the newspapers, magazines, newsreels and TV outfits in the world are sending every man they can release into this area. They’re going batty trying to find El Hassan. Man, do you realize the extent of the country your followers now dominate?”

Homer said blankly, “I hadn’t thought of it. Besides, most of what you’ve been saying is news to us here. We’ve been keeping on the prod.”

Kenny grinned widely. “Well, the nearest I can figure it, El Hassan is ruler of an area about the size of Mexico. At least it was yesterday. By today, you can probably tack on Texas.”

Jimmy Peters, serious-faced as usual, said, “Things are moving so fast, we’re going to have to run to keep ahead of El Hassan’s followers. One thing, Homer, we’re going to have to have a press secretary.”

“Elmer Allen was going to handle that, but he’s still up north,” Isobel said.

“I’ll do it. Used to be a newspaperman, when I was younger,” Dave Moroka said quickly.

Isobel frowned and began to say something, but Homer said, “Great, you handle that, Dave.” Then to Kenny: “Where’re your men and how well are they armed?”

“Well, that’s one trouble,” Kenny said unhappily. “We requisitioned motor transport from some of the Sahara Afforestation Project oases down around Tessalit. In fact, Ralph Sandell, their chief mucky-muck in those parts, has come over to us. But we haven’t got much in the way of shooting irons.”

Homer Crawford closed his eyes wearily. “What it boils down to, still, is that a hundred of those Arab Legionnaires, with their armor, could finish us all off in ten minutes if it came to open battle.”

El Hassan continued moving his headquarters, usually daily, but he eluded the journalists only another twelve hours. Then they were upon the mobile camp like locusts.

And David Moroka took over with a calm efficiency that impressed all. In the first place, he explained, El Hassan was much too busy to handle the press except for one conference a week. In the second place, he spoke only Esperanto to foreigners. Meanwhile, he, Dave Moroka, would handle all their questions and make arrangements for suitable photographs and for the TV and newsreel boys to trundle their equipment as near the front lines as possible. And, meanwhile, James and John Peters of El Hassan’s staff had prepared press releases covering the El Hassan movement and its program.

Homer, to the extent possible, was isolated from the new elements descending upon his encampment. Attempting anything else would have been out of the question. At this point, he was getting approximately four hours of sleep a night.

Kenny Ballalou was continually coming and going in a mad attempt to handle the logistics of supplying several thousand men in a desert area all but devoid of either water or graze, not to speak of food, petroleum products and ammunition.

Isobel and Cliff were thrown into the positions of combination secretaries, ministers of finance, assistant bodyguards, and all else that nobody else seemed to handle, including making coffee.

It was Isobel who approached a subject which had long worried her, as they drove across country, the only occupants of one of the original hover-lorries, during a camp move.

She said hesitantly, “Homer, is it a good idea to give Dave such a free hand with the press? You know, there are some fifty or so of them around now and they must be influencing the TV, radio, magazines and newspapers of the world.”

“He seems to know more about it than any of the rest of us,” Homer said, his eyes on the all but sand-obliterated way. “We’re going to have to move more of the men south. We simply haven’t got water enough for them. There’d be enough in Tamanrasset, but not out here. Make a note to cover this with Kenny. I wonder where Bey is, and Elmer.”

Isobel made a note. She said, “Yes, but the trouble is, he’s a comparative newcomer. Are you sure he’s in complete accord with the original plan, Homer? Does the El Hassan dream mean the same to him as it does to you, and… well, me?”

He shot her an impatient glance, even as he hit the lift lever to raise them over a small dune. “You and Dave don’t hit it off very well. He’s a good man, so far as I can see.”

Her delicate forehead wrinkled and her pixie face showed puzzlement. “I don’t know why. I get along with most people, Homer.”

He patted her hand. “You can’t please everybody, Isobel. Listen, something’s got to be done about this king-size mob of camp followers we’ve got. Did you know Common Europe sent in a delegation this morning?”

“Delegation? Common Europe?”

“Yeah. Haven’t had time to discuss it with you. They found us just before we raised camp. Evidently the British Commonwealth and possibly the Soviet Complex —some Chinese, I think—are also trying to locate us. Half of these people are without their own equipment and supplies, but that’s not what worries me right now. We used to be able to camouflage our headquarters camp. Dig into the desert and avoid the aircraft. But if a group of bungling Common Market diplomats can locate us, what’s to keep the Arab Legion from doing it and blessing us with a stick of neopalm bombs?”

Isobel said, “Look, before we leave Dave. Did you know he was confiscating all radio equipment brought into our camp by the newsmen and whoever else?”

Homer frowned. “Well, why?”

“Espionage, Dave says. He’s afraid some of these characters might be in with the Arab Union and inform on us.”

“Well, that makes some sense,” Homer nodded.

“Does it?” Isobel grumbled.

He shot an irritated glance at her again and said impatiently, “Can’t the poor guy do anything right?”

“My woman’s intuition is working,” Isobel growled.

Dave Moroka came into headquarters tent without introduction. He was one of the half-dozen who had permission for this. He had a sheaf of papers in his left hand and was frowning unhappily.

“What’s the crisis?” Homer said.

“Scouts coming up say your pal Bey-ag-Akhamouk is on the way. Evidently, with a big harka of Teda from the Sudan.”

“Great.” Homer crowed. “Now we’ll get going.”

“Ha!” Dave said. “From what we hear, a good many are camel mounted. How are we going to feed them? Already some of the Songhai Kenny brought up from the south have drifted away, unhappy about supplies.”

“Bey’s a top man,” Homer told him. “The best. He’ll have some ideas on our tactics. Meanwhile, we can turn over most of his men to one of the new recruits and head them down to take Fort Lamy. With Fort Lamy and Lake Chad in our hands we’ll control a chunk of Africa so big everybody else will start wondering why they shouldn’t jump on the bandwagon while the going is good.”

Dave said, “Well, that brings up something else, Homer. These new recruits. In the past couple of days, forty or fifty men who used to be connected with African programs sponsored by everybody from the Reunited Nations to this gobbldygook outfit Cliff and Isobel once worked for, the AFAA, have come over to El Hassan. The number will probably double by tomorrow, and triple the next day.”

“Fine,” Homer said. “What’s wrong with that? These are the people that will really count in the long run.”