Mack Reynolds: Border, Breed Nor Birth

It came back to him now, clearly and forcefully, and he realized that whatever it was with which the Beast of Berchtesgaden had enchanted his people, that power was on call in Homer Crawford. Whether he used it for good or evil, that enchanting power was on call. And again Sven Zetterberg was shaken.

Homer Crawford was on his feet, preparatory to leaving.

The Swede simply had to reassert himself. “Dr. Crawford, the Reunited Nations is not without resources. You’ll be arrested before you leave Dakar.”

An element of the tension left the air when Crawford smiled and said, “Doctor, for several years now I have been playing hide-and-seek in the Sahara, doing your work. You mentioned earlier that my team is the most experienced and capable. Just whom are you going to send to pick me up? Members of some of the other teams? Old friends and comrades in arms, many of whom owe their lives to my team when all bets were down? Please do send them, Doctor, I am going to need recruits.”

He swung and left the office. Even as he went he could hear the angry Reunited Nations chief blasting into an interoffice communicator. He decided he’d better see if there wasn’t a back door or window through which to leave the building. He’d have to phone Bey, Isobel and the others and get together for a meeting to plan developments. El Hassan was getting off to a fast start; already he was on the lam.

Homer Crawford played it safe. From the nearest public phone he called Isobel Cunningham at the Hotel Juan-les-Pins. No matter how fast Sven Zetterberg swung into action, it would take his operatives some time to connect Isobel with Homer and his team. As an employee of the Africa for Africans Association, she would ordinarily come in little contact with the Reunited Nations teams. He said, “Isobel? Homer here. Can you talk?”

She said, “Cliff and Jake are here.”

He said, “Have you sounded them out? How do they feel about the El Hassan project?”

“They’re in. At least, Jake is. We’re still arguing with Cliff.”

“O.K. Now listen carefully. Zetterberg turned thumbs down on the whole deal, for various reasons we can discuss later. In fact, he’s incensed and threatened to take steps to keep us from leaving Dakar.”

Isobel was alerted but she snorted deprecation. “What do you want?”

“They’re probably already looking for me, and in a matter of minutes will probably try to pick up Bey-ag-Akhamouk, Elmer Allen and Kenny Ballalou, the other members of my team. Get in touch with them immediately and tell them to get into native costume and into hiding. You and Jake—and Cliff—do the same.”

“Right. Where do we meet and when?”

“In the souk, in the food market. There’s a native restaurant there, run by a former Vietnamese. We’ll meet there at approximately noon.”

“Right. Anything else?”

Homer said, “Tell Bey to bring along an extra 9mm recoilless for me.”

“Yes, El Hassan,” she said, her voice expressionless. She didn’t waste time. Homer Crawford heard the phone click as she hung up.

He was in a branch building of the post and telegraph network on the Rue des Resistance. Before leaving it, he looked out a window. Half a block away was the office of the Sahara Division of the African Development Project. Even as he watched, a dozen men hurried out the front door, fanning out in all directions.

Homer grinned sourly. Old Sven was moving fast.

He shot a quick glance around the lobby of the building. He had to get going. Zetterberg had started with a dozen men to trail down El Hassan. He’d probably have a hundred involved before the hour was out.

A corridor turned off to the right. Homer hurried down it. At each door he looked inside. To whoever occupied the room he murmured a few words of apology in Wolof, the Senegalese lingua franca. The fourth office was empty.

Homer stood there before it for a long, agonizing moment, waiting for the right person to pass. Finally, the man he needed came along. About six feet tall, about a hundred and eighty; dressed in the local native dress and on the ragged side.

Homer said to him authoritatively, in the Wolof tongue, “You there, come in here!” He opened the door, and pointed into the office.

The other, taken aback, demurred.

Homer’s face and tone went still more commanding. “Step in here, before I call the police.”

It was all a mistake, of course. The Senegalese made the gesture equivalent to the European’s shrug and entered the office.

Homer came in behind him and closed the door. He wasted no time in preliminaries. Before the native turned, the American’s hand lashed out in a karate blow which stunned the other. Homer Crawford caught him, even as he fell, and lowered him gently to the floor.

“Sorry, old boy,” he muttered, “but this is probably the most profitable thing that’s happened to you this year.” He stripped off the other’s clothes as rapidly as he could make his hands fly. The other was still out and probably would be for another ten minutes, Crawford estimated. He stripped off his own clothes and donned the native’s.

Last of all, he took his wallet from his pocket, divided the money it contained and stuffed a considerable wad of it into the European clothing he was abandoning.

“Don’t spend all of that in one place,” he growled softly.

Homer dragged the other to a side of the room so that the body could not be spotted from the entrance. Then he crossed to the door, opened it and stepped into the corridor beyond.

There was no need for skulking. He walked out the front door and headed away from the dock and administration buildings area and toward the native section, passing the Reunited Nations building on the way.

Dakar teems with multitudes of a dozen tribes come in from the jungles and the bush, the desert and the swamp areas of the sources of the Niger, to look for work on the new projects, to visit relatives, to market for the products of civilization—or to gawk. Homer Crawford disappeared into them, one among many.

Toward noon, he entered the cleared area which was the restaurant he had named to Isobel and squatted before the pots to the far end of the Vietnamese-owned eatery, examining them with care. He chose a large chunk of barbequed goat and was served it with a half-pound piece of unsalted Senegalese bread, torn from a monstrous loaf, and a twisted piece of newspaper into which had been measured an ounce or so of coarse salt. He took his meal and went to as secluded a corner as he could find.

Homer Crawford chuckled inwardly. That morning he had breakfasted in the swankiest hotel in West Africa. He wished there was some manner in which he could have invited Sven Zetterberg to dine here with him. Or, come to think of it, a group of the students he had once taught sociology at the University of Michigan. Or, possibly, prexy Wallington, under whom he had worked while taking his doctor’s degree.

Yes, it would have been interesting to have had a luncheon companion.

A native woman, on the stoutish side but with her hair done up in one of the fabulously ornate hair styles specialized in by the Senegalese, and wearing a flowing, shapeless dress of the garish textiles run off purposely for this market in Japan and Manchester, waddled up to take a place nearby. She bore a huge skewar of barbequed beef chunks, and a hunk of bread not unlike Homer’s own.

She grumbled uncomfortably; her back to the American, as she settled into a position on the floor. And she mumbled as she began chewing at the meat.

No table manners, Homer Crawford grinned inwardly. He wondered how long it would take for the others to get here. He wasn’t worried about Isobel, Cliff Jackson and Jake Armstrong. It would take time before Zetterberg’s Reunited Nations cloak-and-dagger boys got around to them, but he wasn’t sure that she’d be able to locate his own team in time. That bit he’d given the Swede official about his being so bully-bully with the other Reunited Nations teams was in the way of being an exaggeration, with the idea of throwing the other off. Actually, working in the field on definite assignments, it was seldom you ran into other African Development Project men. But perhaps it would tie Zetterberg up, wondering just who he could trust to send looking for El Hassan.