"And they couldn't get away from that Q'ran of theirs. They took it
seriously. They started off in their big universities, such as those
at Fez, being the greatest scientists and scholars the world had ever
seen. But the fundamentalists won out, and in a couple of hundred
years the only thing being taught at Fez was the Q'ran. To even
suggest that all necessary information isn't contained therein, is
enough to have you clobbered. Islam became the most reactionary force
to suppress progress in the civilized world. In fact, by this period
in world history, we don't even think of the Moslem world as
particularly civilized."
Cliff said defensively, "The Bible doesn't encourage original thinking
either. A fundamentalist ..."
"Sure," Crawford interrupted. "Those elements who take the Bible the
way Islam took the Q'ran wind up in the same rut. But _as a whole_,
Europe was sparked enough by the original Islamic explosion that the
Renaissance resulted, with what world results we all know. Be ..."
* * * * *
There was a roar of confusion outside. A blasting of guns, a shrieking
of _Ul-Ul-Ul-Allah Akbar!_
Crawford came to his feet unhappily. "Another contingent of Tuareg,"
he said. "I'll have to give them a quick welcoming to the colors
speech."
The guns outside continued their booming.
"Confound it," he growled, "I wish I could break them of that habit of
blasting away their ammunition. They'll have better targets before the
week is out."
He pushed open the tent flap and, followed by Isobel and Cliff,
emerged into the stretch of clearing between his tents and the
hovercraft, and the growing Tuareg encampment. His diagnosis had been
correct. A contingent of possibly two score Tuareg camelmen had come
a-galloping up, shaking rifles above their heads in a small scale
gymhana, or fantasia as the Moors called them.
"At least it's a larger group than usual," Cliff said from behind.
"But at this rate, it'll still take a month for us to equal the Arab
Legion in Tamanrasset." He added in disgust, "And look at this bunch
of ragamuffins. Half of them are carrying muzzleloaders."
The booming muskets and the cracking rifles suddenly began to fall off
in intensity and the camelmen and the hordes of Tuareg women and naked
children who had swarmed from the tents to greet them were falling
silent. Here and there a hand pointed upward.
Homer, Cliff and Isobel swung their own eyes up to the sky in dreaded
anticipation. The hover-lorry was camouflaged to blend in with the
sands and rock outcroppings of this area, but it was possible that an
aircraft might have determined that this was El Hassan's base,
possibly through some act of a traitor, in which case ...
They found the spot in the sky that the tribesmen were pointing out.
It seemed to move slowly for a military craft, but for that matter it
might be a helio-jet and considerably more dangerous, so far as they
being spotted was concerned, than a fast moving fighter.
[Illustration]
Guemama, was barking to his men to take cover. Two days before
Crawford had checked out several of the more bright-eyed on the flac
rifle and now three of them ran to where it was set up at a high
point.
But hardly had the confused milling got under way than it fell off
again. Movement stopped, and the Tuareg faced the approaching dot in
the sky.
"Djinn...!"
"Afrit...!"
Cliff had darted back into the tent, now he emerged with binoculars.
"What the devil is it?" Crawford snapped. Desert trained eyes were
evidently considerably more effective than his own. He couldn't see
what the tribesmen were gaping at.
"It's the smallest heliohopper _I've_ ever seen," Cliff snorted. "It's
so small practically all you can see are the rotors and the passenger.
He doesn't even look as though he's got a seat."
Guemama came hurrying up, his eyes wide beneath his teguelmoust. "El
Hassan! A witchman ... come out of the sky!"
Homer said evenly, "It is nothing. Only post men ready to obey my
commands."
Guemama hesitated as though to waver out another protest, but then
spun and hurried off--military-like, glad to have an order to obey to
keep his mind from the impossible.
"I'm beginning to have a sneaking suspicion--" Crawford began without
finishing. "Come on Isobel, Cliff. We're going to have to make the
most of this."
* * * * *
Rex Donaldson, ex-field man for the African Department of the British
Commonwealth, dropped the lift lever of his heliohopper and settled to
the ground immediately before Homer Crawford who stood there flanked
by Isobel Cunningham and Cliff Jackson. Further back and in the form
of a crescent were possibly two or three hundred Tuareg of all ages
and both sexes.
Donaldson, in the garb of a Dogan juju man consisting of little more
than a wisp of cloth about his loins, played it straight, not knowing
the setup. On the face of it, he had just flown out of the sky
_personally_. The size of his equipment so small as to be all but
meaningless.
He unstrapped himself from the thin, bicyclelike seat, and,
expressionlessly, folded the rotors of his tiny craft back over
themselves and the engine, collapsed the whole thing into a manageable
packet of some seventy-five pounds, the seat now becoming a handle,
and then turned and faced Crawford.
Donaldson screwed his wizened face into an expression of respect and
made a motion of obeisance. Then he waited.