Mack Reynolds: Blackman' Burden

“That is not the way they tell it. They claim you ambushed them.”

Abe put in innocently, “How would the Arab Union know? We didn’t leave any survivors.”

Zetterberg glared at him. “It is not easy, Mr. Baker, for we who do the paper work involved in this operation, to account for the activities of you hair-trigger men in the field.”

“We appreciate your difficulties,” Homer said evenly. “But we can only continue to do what we think best on being confronted with an emergency.”

The Swede drummed his fingers on the desk top. “Perhaps I should remind you that the policy of this project is to encourage amalgamation of the peoples of the area. Possibly, the Arab Union will prove to be the best force to accomplish such a union.”

Abe grunted.

Homer Crawford was shaking his head. “You don’t believe that, Dr. Zetterberg, and I doubt if there are many non-Moslems who do. Mohammed sprung out of the deserts and his religion is one based on the surroundings, both physical and socio-economic.”

Zetterberg grumbled, argumentatively, though his voice lacked conviction, “So did its two sister religions, Judaism and Christianity.”

Crawford waggled a finger negatively. “Both of them adapted to changing times, with considerable success. Islam has remained the same and in all the world there is not one example of a highly developed socio-economic system in a Moslem country. The reason is that in your country, and mine, and in the other advanced countries of the West, we pay lip service to our religions, but we don’t let them interfere with our day-by-day life. But the Moslem, like the rapidly disappearing ultra-orthodox Jew, lives his religion every day and by the rules set down by the Prophet fifteen centuries ago. Everything a Moslem does from the moment he gets up in the morning is all mapped out in the Koran. What fingers of the hand to eat with, what hand to break bread with —and so on and so forth. It can get ludicrous. You should see the bathroom of a wealthy Moslem in some modern city such as Tangier. Mohammed never dreamed of such institutions as toilet paper. His followers still obey the rules he set down as an alternative.”

“What’s your point?”

“That North Africa cannot be united under the banner of Islam if she is going to progress rapidly. If it ever unites, it will be in spite of local religions—Islam and pagan as well; they hold up the wheels of progress.”

Zetterberg stared at him. The truth of the matter was that he agreed with the American and they both knew it.

He said, “This matter of physically assaulting and then arresting the chieftain”—he looked down at a paper on his desk—“of the Ouled Touameur clan of the Chaambra confederation, Abd-el-Kader. From your report, the man was evidently attempting to unify the tribes.”

Crawford was shaking his head impatiently. “No. He didn’t have the… dream. He was a raider, a racketeer, not a leader of purposeful men. Perhaps it’s true that these people need a hero to act as a symbol for them, but he can’t be such as Abd-el-Kader.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the Swede said grudgingly. “See here, have you heard reports of a group of Cubans, in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan to help with the new sugar refining there, being attacked?”

The eyes of both Crawford and Baker narrowed. There’d been talk about this at Timbuktu. “Only a few rumors,” Crawford said.

The Swede drummed his desk with his nervous fingers. “The rumors are correct. The whole group was either killed or wounded.” He said suddenly, “You had nothing to do with this, I suppose?”

Crawford held his palms up, in surprise, “My team has never been within a thousand miles of Khartoum.”

Zetterberg said, “See here, we suspect the Cubans might have supported Soviet Complex viewpoints.”

Crawford shrugged. “I know nothing about them at all.”

Zetterberg said, “Do you think this might be the work of El Hassan and his followers?”

Abe started to chuckle something, but Homer shook his head slightly in warning and said, “I don’t know.”

“How did that affair in Mopti turn out, these riots in favor of El Hassan?”

Homer Crawford shrugged. “Routine. Must have been as many as ten thousand of them at one point. We used standard tactics in gaining control and then dispersing them. I’ll have a complete written report to you before the day is out.”

Zetterberg said, “You’ve heard about this El Hassan before?”

“Quite a bit.”

“From the rumors that have come into this office, he backs neither East nor West in international politics. He also seems to agree with your summation of the Islamic problem. He teaches separation of Church and state.”

“They’re the same thing in Moslem countries,” Abe muttered.

Zetterberg tossed his bombshell out of a clear sky. “Dr. Crawford,” he snapped, “in spite of the warnings we’ve had to issue to you repeatedly, you are admittedly our best man in the field. We’re giving you a new assignment. Find this El Hassan and bring him here!”

Zetterberg leaned forward, an expression of somewhat anxious sincerity in his whole demeanor.

Abe Baker choked, and then suddenly laughed.

Sven Zetterberg stared at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Well, nothing,” Abe admitted. He looked to Homer Crawford.

Crawford said to the Swede carefully, “Why?”

Zetterberg said impatiently, “Isn’t it obvious, after the conversation we’ve had here? Possibly this El Hassan is the man we’re looking for. Perhaps this is the force that will bind North Africa together. Thus far, all we’ve heard about him has been rumor. We don’t seem to be able to find anyone who has seen him, nor is the exact strength of his following known. We’d like to confer with him, before he gets any larger.”

Crawford said carefully, “It’s hard to track down a rumor.”

“That’s why we give the assignment to our best team in the field,” the Swede told him. “You’ve got a roving commission. Find El Hassan and bring him here to Dakar.”

Abe grinned and said, “Suppose he doesn’t want to come?”

“Use any methods you find necessary. If you need more manpower, let us know. But we must talk to El Hassan.”

Homer said, still watching his words, “Why the urgency?”

The Reunited Nations official looked at him for a long moment, as though debating whether to let him in on higher policy. “Because frankly, Dr. Crawford, the elements which first went together to produce the African Development Project, are, shall we say, becoming somewhat unstuck.”

“The glue was never too strong,” Abe muttered.

Zetterberg nodded. “The attempt to find competent, intelligent men to work for the project, who were at the same time altruistic and unaffected by personal or national interests, has always been a difficult one. If you don’t mind my saying so, we Scandinavians, particularly those not affiliated with NATO, come closest to filling the bill. We have no designs on Africa. It is unfortunate that we have practically no Negro citizens who could do field work.”

“Are you suggesting other countries have designs on Africa?” Homer said.

For the first time the Swede laughed—a short, choppy laugh. “Are you suggesting they haven’t? What was that convoy of the Arab Union bringing into the Sahara? Guns, with which to forward their cause of taking over all North Africa. What were those Cubans doing in Sudan, that someone else felt it necessary to assassinate them? What is the program of the Soviet Complex as it applies to this area, and how does it differ from that of the United States? And how do the ultimate programs of the British Commonwealth and the French Community differ from each other and from both the United States and Russia?”