Homer Crawford said, "The teams of all these organizations do their
best to spur African progress, in our case, in North Africa,
especially the area between the Niger and the Mediterranean. Often we
disguise ourselves as natives since in that manner we are more quickly
trusted. We wear the clothes, speak the local language or lingua
franca."
The American hesitated a moment, then plunged in. "Dr. Zetterberg, the
African is still a primitive but newly beginning to move out of a
tradition-ritual-taboo tribal society. He seeks a hero to follow, a
man of towering prestige who knows the answers to all questions. We
may not _like_ this fact, we with our traditions of democracy, but it
is so. The African is simply not yet at that stage of society where
political democracy is applicable."
"My team does most of its work posing as Enaden--low caste itinerant
smiths of the Sahara. As such we can go any place and are everywhere
accepted, a necessary sector of the Saharan economy. As such, we
continually spread the ... ah, propaganda of the Reunited Nations--the
need for education, the need for taking jobs on the new projects, the
need for casting aside old institutions and embracing the new. Early
in the game we found our words had little weight coming from simple
Enaden smiths so we ... well, _invented_ this mysterious El Hassan,
and everything we said we attributed to him."
"News spreads fast in the desert, astonishingly fast. El Hassan
started with us but soon other teams, hearing about him and realizing
that his message was the same as that they were trying to propagate,
did the same thing. That is, attributed the messages they had to
spread to El Hassan. It was amusing when a group of us got together
last week in Timbuktu, to find that we'd all taken to kowtowing to
this mythical desert hero who planned to unite all North Africa."
The Swede was staring at him unbelievingly. "But, a bit earlier you
said you were El Hassan."
Homer Crawford looked into his chief's face and nodded seriously.
"I've been conferring with various other field workers, both Reunited
Nations and otherwise. The situation calls for a real El Hassan. If we
don't provide him, someone else will. I propose to take over the
position."
Sven Zetterberg's face was suddenly cold. "And why, Dr. Crawford, do
you think you are more qualified than others?"
The American Negro could hardly fail to note the other's disapproval.
He said evenly, but definitely, "Through experience. Through
education. Through ... through having the dream, Dr. Zetterberg."
"The Reunited Nations cannot support such a project, Dr. Crawford. I
absolutely forbid you to consider it."
"Forbid me?"
* * * * *
It was as though a strange something entered the atmosphere of the
room, almost as though a new _presence_ was there. And almost, it
seemed to Sven Zetterberg, that the already tall, solidly built man
across from him grew physically as his voice seemed to swell, to reach
out, to dominate. There was a new, and all but unbelievable Homer
Crawford here.
The Swedish official regathered his forces. This was ridiculous. He
said again, "I forbid you to...." the sentence dribbled away under the
cold disdain in the air now.
Homer Crawford said flatly, "You don't seem to understand, Zetterberg.
The Reunited Nations has no control over El Hassan. Homer Crawford, as
of this meeting, has resigned his post with the African Development
Project. And El Hassan has begun his task of uniting all North
Africa."
Sven Zetterberg, shaken by this new and unsuspected force the other
seemed to be able to bring to his command, fought back. "It will be
simple to discredit you, to let it be known that you are no more than
an ambitious American out to seize power illegally."
Crawford's scorn held an element of amusement. "Try it. I suspect your
attempts to discredit El Hassan will prove unsuccessful. He has
already been rumored to be everything from an Ethiopian to the Second
Coming of the Messiah. Your attempt to brand him an American
adventurer will be swallowed up in the flood of other rumor."
The Swede was still shaken by the strange manner in which his once
subordinate had suddenly dominated him. Sven Zetterberg was not a man
to be dominated, to be made unsure.
Time folded back on itself and for a moment he was again a lad and on
vacation with his father in Bavaria. They were having lunch in the
famed Hofbrauehaus, largest of the Munich beercellars, and even a
ten-year-old could sense an anticipation in the air, particularly
among the large number of brownshirted men who had gathered to one
side of the ground level of the beer hall. His father was telling Sven
of the history of the medieval building when a silence fell. Into the
beer hall had come a pasty faced, trenchcoat garbed little man, his
face set in stern lines but insufficiently to offset the ludicrous
mustache. He was accompanied by an elderly soldier in the uniform of a
Field Marshal, by a large tub of a man whose face beamed--but
evilly--and by a pinch faced cripple. All were men of command, all
except the pasty faced one, to whom they seemingly and surprisingly,
deferred. And then he stood on a heavy chair and spoke. And then his
_power_ reached out and grasped all within reach of his shrill voice.
Grasped them and compelled them and they became a shouting, red faced,
arm brandishing mob, demanding to be led to glory. And Sven's father
had bustled the shocked boy from the building.
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 tenseness 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 and even as he went 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-le-Pin. 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.