Cliff blurted, "Holy Mackerel, if Donaldson, here, can drop in on us
out of a clear sky, what keeps anybody else from doing it? Somebody
with a couple of neopalm bombs in the way of calling cards."
The dried up little man grimaced in his equivalent of a grin and said,
"Hold it, you chaps. I want to notify the others."
"The others? What others?" Crawford said.
Donaldson ignored him for a moment, unslung the small bag he carried
over one shoulder and dipped into it for a tiny, two-way radio. He
pressed the buzzer button, then held it up to his mouth. "Jack, Jimmy,
Dave. Here we are. Took donkey's years, but I found them. You chaps
zero-in here." He left the device on and set it to one side, then
yawned and settled himself to the rug-covered ground, crosslegged,
Dogon style.
Homer Crawford, even as he sat down himself on a footlocker, in lieu
of a chair, rapped, "How did you find us? Who did you just radio?
Where'd you come from?"
"I say, hold it," Donaldson chuckled sourly. "First of all, I've come
to join up. I thought as far back as that time we co-operated in
quelling the riots in Mopti that you ought to do this--proclaim
yourself El Hassan. When I heard you'd taken the step, I came to join
up."
"Oh, great," Cliff said. "What took you so long? We hardly get here,
to our ultra-secret hideout, than here you are."
Isobel came with the coffee and handed it around, silently. Then she,
too, settled to the rug which covered the sand of the floor.
Rex Donaldson turned to Cliff and there was a wrinkle of amusement in
the older man's eyes. "I took so long, because I needed the time to
recruit a few other chaps I knew would stand with us."