The big man stood up from where he'd been seated on the bed. "O.K.,
O.K. Possibly there were other angles. I wanted to travel. Wanted to
see Africa. Besides, it was good background for some future job. I
figured it wouldn't hurt me any, in later years, applying for some
future job. Maybe with some Negro concern in the States. I'd be able
to say I'd put in a few years in Africa. Something like a Jew in New
York who was a veteran of the Israel-Arab wars, before the debacle."
They still looked at him, none of them accusingly.
He was irritated as he paced. "Don't you see? Everybody doesn't have
this _dream_ that Homer's always talking about. That doesn't mean I'm
abnormal. I just don't have the interest you do. All I want is a good
job, some money in the bank, security back in the States. I'm not
interested in dashing all over the globe, getting shot at, dying for
some ideal."
Homer said gently, "It's up to you, Cliff. Nobody's twisting your
arm."
There was sweat on the big man's forehead. "All I came to Africa for
was the job, the money I got out of it," he repeated, insisting.
* * * * *
To Homer Crawford suddenly came the realization that the other needed
an out, an excuse. An explanation to himself for doing something he
wanted to do but wouldn't admit because it went against the
opportunistic code he told himself he followed.
Homer said, "All right. How much are you making as a field worker for
the Africa for Africans Association?"
Cliff looked at him, uncomprehending. "Eight thousand dollars, plus
expenses."
"O.K., we'll double that. Sixteen thousand to begin with, as El
Hassan's Minister of Treasury and whatever other duties we can think
of to hang on you."
There was a long moment of silence, unbroken by any of the others.
Finally in a gesture of desperation, Cliff Jackson waved at the money
and checks sitting on the center table. "Sixteen thousand a year! The
whole organization doesn't have enough to pay me six months' salary."
Homer said mildly, "That's why your pay was doubled. You have to take
risks to make money in this world, Cliff. If El Hassan does come to
power, undoubtedly you'll get other raises--along with greater
responsibility."
He looked into Cliff Jackson's face, and although his words had dealt
with money, a man's dream looked out from his eyes. And the force of
personality that could emanate from Homer Crawford, possibly
unbeknownst to himself, flooded over the huge Californian. The others
in the room could feel it. Elmer Allen cleared his throat; Isobel held
her elbows to her sides, in a feminine protest against naked male
psychic strength.
Kenny Ballalou said without inflection, "Put up or shut up, Cliff old
pal."
Cliff Jackson sank back onto the spot on the bed he'd occupied before.
"I'm in," he muttered, so softly as hardly to be heard.
"None of you are in," a voice from the doorway said.
The figure that stood there held a thin, but heavy calibered
automatic in his hand.
* * * * *
He was a dapper man, neat, trim, smart. His clothes were those of
Greater Washington, rather than Dakar and West Africa. His facial
expression seemed overly alert, overly bright, and his features were
more Caucasian than Negroid.