Mack Reynolds: Border, Breed Nor Birth

He finished off his barbequed goat and the bread and wiped his hands on his clothes. Nobody here yet. To have an excuse for staying, he would have to buy a bottle of Gazelle beer, the cheap Senegalese brew which came in quart bottles and was warm and on the gassy side.

It was then that the woman in front of him, without turning, said softly, “El Hassan?”

Homer Crawford stared at her, incredulous. The woman couldn’t possibly be an emissary from Isobel or from one of his own companions. This situation demanded the utmost secrecy; they hadn’t had time to screen any outsiders as to trustworthiness.

She turned. It was Isobel. She chuckled softly, “You should see your face.”

His eyes went to her figure.

“Done with mirrors,” Isobel said. “Or, at least, with pillows.”

Homer didn’t waste time. “Where are the others? They should be here by now.”

“We figured that the fewer of us seen on the streets, the better. So they’re waiting for you. Since I was the most easily disguised, the least suspicious looking, I was elected to come get you.”

“Waiting where?”

She licked the side of her mouth, a disconcerting characteristic of hers, and looked at him archly. “Those pals of yours have quite a bit on the ball on their own. They decided that there was a fairly good chance that Sven Zetterberg wasn’t exactly going to fall into your arms, so they took preliminary measures. Kenny Ballalou rented a small house, here in the native quarter. We’ve all rendezvoused there. See, you aren’t the only one on the ball.”

Homer frowned at her, for the moment being in no mood for humor. “What was the idea of sitting here for the past five minutes without even speaking? You must have recognized me, knowing what to look for.”

She nodded. “I … I wasn’t sure, Homer, but I had the darnedest feeling I was being followed.”

His glance was sharp now: first at her, then a quick darting around the vicinity. “Woman’s intuition,” he snapped, “or something substantial?”

She frowned at him. “I’m not a ninny, Homer.”

His voice softened and he said quickly, “Don’t misunderstand, Isobel. I know that.”

She forgot about her objection to his tone. “Even intuition doesn’t come out of a clear sky. Something sparks it. Subconscious psi, possibly, but a spark.”

“However?” he prodded.

“I took all precautions. I can’t seem to put my finger on anything.”

“O.K.,” he said decisively. “Let’s go then.” He came to his feet and reached a hand down for her.

“Heavens to Betsy,” she said, “don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Help a woman in public. You’ll look suspicious.” She came to her own feet, without aid.

Damn, he thought. She was right. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to a man who acted peculiarly.

They made their way out of the food market and into the souk proper, Homer walking three or four paces ahead of her, Isobel demurely behind, her eyes on the ground. They passed the native stands and tiny shops, and the even smaller venders and hucksters with their products of the mass production industries of East and West, side-by-side with the native handicrafts ranging from carved wooden statues, jewelry, gris gris charms and kambu fetishes, to ceramics whose designs went back to an age before the Portuguese first cruised off this coast. And everywhere was color; there are no people on earth more color conscious than the Senegalese.

Isobel guided him, her voice quiet and still maintaining its uncharacteristic demure quality.

He would never have recognized Isobel, Homer Crawford told himself. Isobel Cunningham, late of Columbia University where she’d taken her Master’s in anthropology. Isobel Cunningham, whom he had told on their first meeting that she looked like the former singing star, Lena Horne. Isobel Cunningham, slight of build, pixie of face, crisply modern American with her tongue and wit. Was he in love with her? He didn’t know. El Hassan had no time, at present, for those things love implied.

She said, “Here,” and led the way down a brick-paved passage to a small house, almost a hut, that lay beyond.

Homer Crawford looked about him critically before entering. He said, “I suppose this has been scouted out adequately. Where’s the back entrance?” He scowled. “Haven’t the boys posted a sentry?”

A voice next to his ear said pleasantly, “Stick ‘em up, stranger. Where’d you get that zoot suit?”

He jerked his head about. There was a very small opening in the wooden wall next to him. It was Kenny Ballalou’s voice.

“Zoot suit, yet!” Homer snorted. “I haven’t heard that term since I was in rompers.”

“You in rompers I’d like to see,” Kenny snorted in his turn. “Come on in, everybody’s here.”

The aged, unpainted, warped, wooden house consisted of two rooms, one three times as large as the second. The furniture was minimal, but there was sitting room on chair, stool and bed for the seven of them.

“Hail, O El Hassan!” Elmer Allen called sourly as Homer entered.

“And the hail with you,” Homer called back, then, “Oops, sorry, Isobel.”

Isobel put her hands on her hips, greatly widened by the stuffing she’d placed beneath her skirts. “Look,” she said. “Thus far, the El Hassan organization, which claims rule of all North Africa, consists of six men and one dame … ah, that is, one lady. Just so the lady won’t continually feel that she’s being a drag on the conversation, you are hearby allowed in moments of stress such shocking profanity as an occasional damn or hell. But only if said lady is also allowed such expletives during periods of similar stress.”

Everyone laughed, and found chairs.

“I’m in love with Isobel Cunningham,” Bey announced definitely.

“Second the motion,” Elmer said.

The rest of them called, “Aye.”

“O.K.,” Homer Crawford said glumly, “I can see that this is going to be one tight-knit organization. Six men in love with the one dame … ah, that is, lady. Kind of a reverse harem deal. Oh, this is going to lead to great cooperation.”

They laughed again and then Jake said, “Well, what’s the story, Homer? How does the El Hassan project sound to Zetterberg and the Reunited Nations?”

Cliff Jackson laughed bitterly. “Why do you think we’re in hiding?” Only he and Jake Armstrong wore western clothing. Kenny Ballalou, Bey-ag-Akhamouk and Elmer Allen were in native dress, similar to that of Homer Crawford. Elmer Allen even bore a pilgrim’s staff.

Crawford, glad that the edge of tenseness had been taken off the group by the banter with Isobel, turned serious now.

He said, “This is where we each take our stand. You can turn back at this point, any one of you, and things will undoubtedly go on as before. You’ll keep your jobs, have no marks against you. Beyond this point, and there’s no turning back. I want you all to think it over, before coming to any snap decisions.”

Elmer Allen said, his face wearing its usual all but sullen expression, “How about you?”

Homer said evenly, “I’ve already taken my stand.”

Kenny Ballalou yawned and said, “I’ve been in this team for three or four years, I’m too lazy to switch now. Besides, I’ve always wanted to be a corrupt politician. Can I be treasurer in this El Hassan regime?”

“No,” Homer said. “Bey?”

Bey-ag-Akhamouk said, “I’ve always wanted to be a general. I’ll come in under those circumstances.”

Homer said, his voice still even. “That’s out. From this point in, you’re a Field Marshal and Minister of Defense.”

“Shucks,” Bey said. “I’d always wanted to be a general.”