Mack Reynolds: Border, Breed Nor Birth

“At any rate, Dr. Crawford, when the rumors of El Hassan began to come into this office they brought with them a breath of hope. From all we have heard, he teaches our basic program—a breaking down of old tribal society, education, economic progress, Pan-African unity. Dr. Crawford, no one with whom this office is connected seems ever to have seen this El Hassan but we are most anxious to talk to him. Perhaps this is the man behind whom we can throw our support. Your task is to find him.”

Homer Crawford raked the fingers of his right hand back over his short wiry hair and grimaced. He said, “It won’t be necessary.”

“I beg your pardon, Doctor?”

Crawford said, “It won’t be necessary to go looking for El Hassan.”

The Swede scowled his irritation at the other. “See here…”

Crawford said, “I’m El Hassan.”

Sven Zetterberg stared at him, uncomprehending.

Homer Crawford said, “I suppose it’s your turn to listen and for me to do the talking.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Dr. Zetterberg, even before the Reunited Nations evolved the idea of the African Development Project, it became obvious that the field work was going to have to be in the hands of Negroes. The reason is doublefold. First, the African doesn’t trust the white man, with good reason. Second, the white man is a citizen of his own country, first of all, and finds it difficult not to have motives connected with his own race and nation. But the African Negro, too, has his tribal and sometimes national affiliations and cannot be trusted not to be prejudiced in their favor. The answer? The educated American Negro, such as myself.

“I haven’t the slightest idea from whence came my ancestors, from what part of Africa, what tribe, what nation. But I am a Negro and … well, have the dream of bettering my race. I have no irons in the fire, beyond altruistic ones. Of course, when I say American Negroes I don’t exclude Canadian ones, or those of Latin America or the Caribbean. It is simply that there are greater numbers of educated American Negroes than you find elsewhere.”

Zetterberg said impatiently, “Please, Dr. Crawford. Come to the point. That ridiculous statement you made about El Hassan.”

“Of course, I am merely giving background. Most of we field workers, not only the African Development teams, but such organizations as the Africa for Africans Association and the representatives of the African Department of the British Commonwealth, and of the French Community’s African Affairs sector, are composed of Negroes.”

Zetterberg was nodding. “All right, I know.”

Homer Crawford said, “The teams of all these organizations do their best to spur African progress, in our case, in North Africa, especially the area between the Niger and the Mediterranean. Often we disguise ourselves as natives since in that manner we are more quickly trusted. We wear the clothes, speak the local language or lingua franca.”

The American hesitated a moment, then plunged in. “Dr. Zetterberg, the African is still a primitive but newly beginning to move out of a tradition-ritual-taboo tribal society. He seeks a hero to follow, a man of towering prestige who knows the answers to all questions. We may not like this fact, we with our traditions of democracy, but it is so. The African is simply not yet at that stage of society where political democracy is applicable.”

“My team does most of its work posing as Enaden—low-caste itinerant smiths of the Sahara. As such we can go any place and are everywhere accepted as a necessary sector of the Saharan economy. As such, we continually spread the … ah, propaganda of the Reunited Nations: the need for education, the need for taking jobs on the new projects, the need for casting aside old institutions and embracing the new. Early in the game we found our words had little weight coming from simple Enaden smiths so we … well, invented this mysterious El Hassan, and everything we said we attributed to him.

“News spreads fast in the desert, astonishingly fast. El Hassan started with us but soon other teams, hearing about him and realizing that his message was the same as what they were trying to propagate, did the same thing—that is, attributed the messages they had to spread to El Hassan. It was amusing when a group of us got together last week in Timbuktu, to find that we’d all taken to kowtowing to this mythical desert hero who planned to unite all North Africa.”

The Swede was staring at him unbelievingly. “But a bit earlier you said you were El Hassan.”

Homer Crawford looked into his chief’s face and nodded seriously. “I’ve been conferring with various other field workers, both Reunited Nations and otherwise. The situation calls for a real El Hassan. If we don’t provide him, someone else will. I propose to take over the position.”

Sven Zetterberg’s face was suddenly cold. “And why, Dr. Crawford, do you think you are more qualified than others?”

The American Negro could hardly fail to note the other’s disapproval. He said evenly, but definitely, “Through experience. Through education. Through … through having the dream, Dr. Zetterberg.”

“The Reunited Nations cannot support such a project, Dr. Crawford. I absolutely forbid you to consider it.”

“Forbid me?”

It was as though a strange something entered the atmosphere of the room, almost as though a new presence was there. And almost, it seemed to Sven Zetterberg, that the already tall, solidly built man across from him grew physically as his voice seemed to swell, to reach out, to dominate. There was a new and all but unbelievable Homer Crawford here.

The Swedish official regathered his forces. This was ridiculous. He said again, “I forbid you to…” The sentence dribbled away under the cold disdain in the air now.

Homer Crawford said flatly, “You don’t seem to understand, Zetterberg. The Reunited Nations has no control over El Hassan. Homer Crawford, as of this meeting, has resigned his post with the African Development Project. And El Hassan has begun his task of uniting all North Africa.”

Sven Zetterberg, shaken by this new and unsuspected force the other seemed to be able to bring to his command, fought back. “It will be simple to discredit you, to let it be known that you are no more than an ambitious American out to seize power illegally.”

Crawford’s scorn held an element of amusement. “Try it. I suspect your attempts to discredit El Hassan will prove unsuccessful. He has already been rumored to be everything from an Ethiopian to the Second Coming of the Messiah. Your attempt to brand him an American adventurer will be swallowed up in the flood of other rumor.”

The Swede was still shaken by the strange manner in which his one-time subordinate had suddenly dominated him. Sven Zetterberg was not a man to be dominated, to be made unsure.

Time folded back on itself and for a moment he was again a lad and on vacation with his father in Bavaria. They were having lunch in the famed Hofbräuhaus, largest of the Munich beer cellars, and even a ten-year-old could sense an anticipation in the air, particularly among the large number of brownshirted men who had gathered to one side of the ground level of the beerhall. His father was telling Sven of the history of the medieval building when a silence fell. Into the beerhall had come a pasty-faced, trenchcoat-garbed little man, his face set in stern lines but insufficient to offset the ludicrous mustache. He was accompanied by an elderly soldier in the uniform of a field marshal, by a large tub of a man whose face beamed—but evilly —and by a pinch-faced cripple. All were men of command, all except the pasty-faced one, to whom they seemingly and surprisingly deferred. And then he stood on a heavy chair and spoke. And then his power reached out and grasped all within reach of his shrill voice, grasped them and compelled them and they became a shouting, red-faced, arm-brandishing mob, demanding to be led to glory. And Sven’s father had bustled the shocked boy from the building.