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, the
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 hereby 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.