The pilot shifted his heavy shoulders again.
Jake said, "Nobody seems to know, but the weapons were modern. Plenty
modern." He twisted in his bucket seat, uncomfortably. "Listen, have you
heard anything about some character named El Hassan?"
Isobel turned to face him. "Why, yes. The people there in Gao mentioned
him. Who is he?"
"That's what I'd like to know," Jake said. "What did they say?"
"Oh, mostly supposed words of wisdom that El Hassan was alleged to have
made with. I get it that he's some, well you wouldn't call him a
nationalist since he's international in his appeal, but he's evidently
preaching union of all Africans. I get an undercurrent of
anti-Europeanism in general, but not overdone." Isobel's expressive face
went thoughtful. "As a matter of fact, his program seems to coincide
largely with our own, so much so that from time to time when I had
occasion to drop a few words of propaganda into a conversation, I'd
sometimes credit it to him."
Cliff looked over at her and chuckled. "That's a coincidence," he said.
"I've been doing the same thing. An idea often carries more weight with
these people if it's attributed to somebody with a reputation."
Jake, the older of the three said: "Well, I can't find out anything
about him. Nobody seems to know if he's an Egyptian, a Nigerian, a
MOR ... or an Eskimo, for that matter."
"Did you check with headquarters?"
"So far they have nothing on him, except for some other inquiries from
field workers."
Below them, the river was widening out to the point where it resembled
swampland more than a waterway. There were large numbers of waterbirds,
and occasional herds of hippopotami. Isobel didn't express her thoughts,
but a moment of doubt hit her. What would all this be like when the dams
were finished, the waters of this third largest of Africa's rivers,
ninth largest of the world's, under control?
She pointed. "There's Kabara." The age-old river port lay below them.
Cliff slapped one of his controls with the heel of his hand and the
craft began to sink earthward.
* * * * *
They took up quarters in the new hotel which adjoined the new elementary
school, and Isobel immediately went into her routine.
Dressed and shod immaculately, her head held high in confidence, she
spent considerable time mingling with the more backward of the natives
and especially the women. Six months ago, she had given a performance
similar to that she had just finished in Gao, several hundred miles down
river.
Now she renewed old acquaintances, calling them by name--after checking
her notes. Invariably, their eyes bugged. Their questions came thick,
came fast in the slurring Songhoi and she answered them in detail. They
came quickly under her intellectual domination. Her poise, her obvious
well being, flabbergasted them.
In all, they spent a week in the little river town, but even the first
night Isobel slumped wearily in the most comfortable chair of their
small suite's living room.
She kicked off her shoes, and wiggled weary toes.
"If my mother could see me now," she complained. "After giving her all
to get the apple of her eye through school, her wayward daughter winds
up living with two men in the wilds of deepest Africa." She twisted her
mouth puckishly.
Cliff grunted, poking around in a bag for the bottle of cognac he
couldn't remember where he had packed. "Huh!" he said. "The next time
you write her you might mention the fact that both of them are
continually proposing to you and you brush it all off as a big joke."
"Huh, indeed!" Isobel answered him. "Proposing, or propositioning? If
either of you two Romeos ever rattle the doorknob of my room at night
again, you're apt to get a bullet through it."
Jake winced. "Wasn't me. Look at my gray hair, Isobel. I'm old enough to
be your daddy."
"Sugar daddy, I suppose," she said mockingly.
"Wasn't me either," Cliff said, criss-crossing his heart and pointing
upward.
"Huh!" said Isobel again, but she was really in no mood for their usual
banter. "Listen," she said, "what're we accomplishing with all this
masquerade?"
Cliff had found the French brandy. He poured three stiff ones and handed
drinks to Isobel and Jake.
He knew he wasn't telling her anything, but he said, "We're a king-size
rumor campaign, that's what we are. We're breaking down institutions the
sneaky way." He added reflectively. "A kinder way, though, than some."
"But this ... what did you call it earlier, Jake?... this Cinderella act
I go through perpetually. What good does it do, really? I contact only a
few hundreds of people at most. And there are millions here in Mali
alone."
"There are other teams, too," Jake said mildly. "Several hundreds of us
doing one thing or another."
"A drop in the bucket," Isobel said, her piquant sepian face registering
weariness.
Cliff sipped his brandy, shaking his big head even as he did so. "No,"
he said. "It's a king-size rumor campaign and it's amazing how effective
they can be. Remember the original dirty-rumor campaigns back in the
States? Suppose two laundry firms were competing. One of them, with a
manager on the conscience-less side, would hire two or three
professional rumor spreaders. They'd go around dropping into bars,
barber shops, pool rooms. Sooner or later, they'd get a chance to drop
some line such as _did you hear about them discovering that two lepers
worked at the Royal Laundry_? You can imagine the barbers, the
bartenders, and such professional gossips, passing on the good word."
Isobel laughed, but unhappily. "I don't recognize myself in the
description."
Cliff said earnestly, "Sure, only few score women in each town you put
on your act, really witness the whole thing. But think how they pass it
on. Each one of them tells the story of the miracle. A waif comes out of
the desert. Without property, without a husband or family, without
kinsfolk. Shy, dirty, unwanted. Then she's offered a good position if
she'll drop the veil, discard the haik, and attend the new schools. So
off she goes--everyone thinking to her disaster. Hocus-pocus, six months
later she returns, obviously prosperous, obviously healthy, obviously
well adjusted. Fine. The story spreads for miles around. Nothing is so
popular as the Cinderella story, and that's the story you're putting
over. It's a natural."
"I hope so," Isobel said. "Sometimes I think I'm helping put over a
gigantic hoax on these people. Promising something that won't be
delivered."
Jake looked at her unhappily. "I've thought the same thing, sometimes,
but what are you going to be with people at this stage of
development--_subtle_?"
Isobel dropped it. She held out her glass for more cognac. "I hope
there's something decent to eat in this place. Do you realize what I've
been putting into my tummy this past week?"
Cliff shuddered.