Mack Reynolds: Blackman' Burden

“That’s why we have a Reunited Nations,” Crawford said calmly.

“Theoretically, yes. But it is coming apart at the seams. I sometimes wonder if an organization composed of a membership each with its own selfish needs can ever really unite in an altruistic task. Remember the early days when the Congo was first given her freedom? Supposedly the United Nations went in to help. Actually, each element in the United Nations had its own irons in the fire, and usually their desires differed.”

The Swede shrugged hugely. “I don’t know, but I am about convinced, and so are a good many other officers of this project, that unless we soon find a competent leader to act as a symbol around which all North Africans can unite, find such a man and back him, that all our work will crumble in this area under pressure from outside. That’s why we want El Hassan.”

Homer Crawford came to his feet, his face in a scowl. “I’ll let you know by tomorrow, if I can take the assignment,” he said.

“Why tomorrow?” the Swede demanded.

“There are some ramifications I have to consider.”

“Very well,” the Swede said stiffly. He came to his own feet and shook hands with them again. “Oh, there’s just one other thing. This spontaneous meeting you held in Timbuktu with elements from various other organizations. How did it come out?”

Crawford was wary. “Very little result, actually.”

Zetterberg chuckled. “As I expected. However, we would appreciate it, doctor, if you and your team would refrain from such activities in the future. You are, after all, hired by the Reunited Nations and owe it all your time and allegiance. We have no desire to see you fritter away this time with religious fanatics and other crackpot groups.”

“I see,” Crawford said.

The other laughed cheerfully. “I’m sure you do, Dr. Crawford. A word to the wise.”

They remained silent on the way back to the hotel.

In the lobby they ran into Isobel Cunningham.

Homer Crawford looked at her thoughtfully. He said, “We’ve got some thinking to do and some ideas to bat back and forth. I value your opinion and experience, Isobel. Could you come up to the suite and sit in?”

She tilted her head and looked at him from the side of her eyes. “Something big has happened, hasn’t it?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know. We’ve got to make some decisions.”

“Come on Isobel,” Abe said. “You can give us the feminine viewpoint and all that jazz.”

They started for the elevator and Isobel said to Abe, “If you’d just be consistent with that pseudo-beatnik chatter of yours, I wouldn’t mind. But half the time you talk like an English lit major when you forget to put on your act.”

“Man,” Abe said to her, “maybe I was wrong inviting you to sit in on this bull session. I can see you’re in a bad mood.”

In the living room of the suite, Isobel took an easy-chair and Abe threw himself full length on his back on a couch. Homer Crawford paced the floor.

“Well?” Isobel said.

Crawford said abruptly, “Somebody tried to poison me last night. Got into this room somehow and put cyanide in a bottle of cognac Abe and I were drinking out of earlier in the evening.”

Isabel stared at him. Her eyes went from him to Abe and back. “But… but, why?”

Crawford ran his hand back over his wiry hair in puzzlement. “I … I don’t know. That’s what’s driving me batty. I can’t figure out why anybody would want to kill me.”

“I can,” Abe said bluntly. “And that interview we just had with Sven Zetterberg just bears me out.”

“Zetterberg,” Isobel said, surprised. “Is he in Africa?”

Crawford nodded to her question but his eyes were on Abe.

Abe put his hands behind his head and said to the ceiling, “Zetterberg just gave Homer’s team the assignment of bringing in El Hassan.”

“El Hassan? But you boys told us all in Timbuktu that there was no El Hassan. You invented him and then the rest of us, more or less spontaneously, though unknowingly, took up the falsification and spread your work.”

“That’s right,” Crawford said, still looking at Abe.

“But didn’t you tell Sven Zetterberg?” Isobel demanded. “He’s too big a man to play jokes on.”

“No, I didn’t and I’m not sure I know why.”

“I know why,” Abe said. He sat up suddenly and swung his feet around and to the floor.

The other two watched him, both frowning.

Abe said slowly, “Homer, you are El Hassan.”

His chief scowled at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

The younger man gestured impatiently. “Figure it out Somebody else already has, the somebody who took a shot at you from that mosque. Look, put it all together and it makes sense.

“These North Africans aren’t going to make it, not in the short period of time that we want them to, unless a leader appears on the scene. These people are just beginning to emerge from tribal society. In the tribes, people live by rituals and taboos, by traditions. But at the next step in the evolution of society they follow a hero —and the traditions are thrown overboard. It’s one step up the ladder of cultural evolution. Just for the record, the heroes almost invariably get clobbered in the end, since a hero must be perfect. Once he is found wanting in any respect, he’s a false prophet, a cheat, and a new, perfect and faultless hero must be found.

“O.K. At this stage we need a hero to unite North Africa, but this time we need a real superhero. In this modern age, the old style one won’t do. We need one with education, and altruism, one with the dream, as you call it. We need a man who has no affiliations, no preferences for Tuareg, Teda, Chaambra, Dogon, Moor or whatever. He’s got to be truly neutral. O.K., you’re it. You’re an American Negro, educated, competent, widely experienced. You’re a natural for the job. You speak Arabic, French, Tamaheq, Songhai and even Swahili.”

Abe stopped momentarily and twisted his face in a grimace. “But there’s one other thing that’s possibly the most important of all. Homer, you’re a born leader.”

“Who, me ?” Crawford snorted. “I hate to be put in a position where I have to lead men, make decisions, that sort of thing.”

“That’s beside the point. There in Timbuktu you had them in the palm of your hand. All except one or two, like Doc Smythe and that missionary. And I have an idea even they’d come around. Everybody there felt it. They were in favor of anything you suggested. Isobel?”

She nodded, very seriously. “Yes. You have a personality that goes over, Homer. I think it would be a rare person who could conceive of you cheating, or misleading. You’re so obviously sincere, competent and intelligent that it, well, projects itself. I noticed it even more in Mopti than Timbuktu. You had that city in your palm in a matter of a few hours.”

Homer Crawford shifted his shoulders uncomfortably.

Abe said, “You might dislike the job, but it’s a job that needs doing.”

Crawford ran his hand around the back of his neck, uncomfortably. “You think such a project would get the support of the various teams and organizations working North Africa, eh?”

“Practically a hundred percent. And even if some organizations or even countries, with their own row to hoe, tried to buck you, their individual members and teams would come over. Why? Because it makes sense.”

Homer Crawford said worriedly, “Actually, I’ve realized this, partially subconsciously, for some time. But I didn’t put myself in the role. I … I wish there really was an El Hassan. I’d throw my efforts behind him.”

“There will be an El Hassan,” Abe said definitely. “And you can be him.”