The wiry South African said easily, "Not so very late. In fact, I
haven't seen Jo-burg since I was a boy."
He was shaking hands with Isobel now. "Jo-burg?" she said.
"Johannesburg," he translated. "I got out by the skin of my teeth
during the troubles in the 1950s."
"You sound like an American," Cliff said when it was his turn to
shake.
"Educated in the States," Moroka said. "Best thing that ever happened
to me was to be kicked out of the land of my birth."
Homer made a sweeping gesture at the floor and the few articles of
furniture the tent contained that could be improvised as chairs. "I'm
surprised you're up here instead of in your own neck of the woods," he
said to the South African.
Moroka shrugged. "I was considering heading south when I ran into
Jimmy and Jack, here. They'd already got the word on the El Hassan
movement from Rex. Their arguments made sense to me."
Eyes went to the brothers from Trinidad and Jack Peters took over the
position of spokesman. He said, seriously, as though trying to
convince the others, "North Africa is the starting point, the
beginning. Given El Hassan's success in uniting North Africa, the
central areas and later even the south will fall into line. Perhaps
one day there will be a union of _all_ Africa."
"Or at least a strong confederation," Jimmy Peters added.
Homer nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps. But we can't look that far
forward now." He looked from one of the newcomers to the other. "I
don't know to what extent you fellows understand what the rest of us
have set out to accomplish but I suppose if you've been with Rex for
the past week, you have a fairly clear idea."
"I believe so," Jack nodded, straight-faced.
Homer Crawford said slowly, "I don't want to give you the wrong idea.
If you join up, you'll find it's no parade. Our chances were slim to
begin, and we've had some setbacks. As you've probably heard, the Arab
Union has stolen a march on us. And from what we can get on the radio,
we have thus far to pick up a single adherent among the world powers."
"_Powers?_" Cliff snorted. "We haven't got a nation the size of Monaco
on our side."
Moroka shot a quick glance at the big Californian.
Isobel caught it and laughed. "Cliff's a perpetual sourpuss," she
said. "However, he's been in since the first."
The South African looked at her in turn. "We were hardly prepared to
find a beautiful American girl in the Great Erg," he said.
Something about his voice caused her to flush. "We've all caught
Homer's dream," she said, almost defensively.
* * * * *
David Moroka flung to his feet, viper fast, and dashed toward Homer
Crawford, his hands extended.
Automatically, Cliff Jackson stuck forward a foot in an attempt to
trip him--and missed.
The South African, moving with blurring speed, grasped the
unsuspecting Crawford by the right hand and arm, swung with fantastic
speed and sent the American sprawling to the far side of the tent.
Homer Crawford, old in rough and tumble, was already rolling out.
Before the inertia of his fall had given way, his right hand, only a
split second before in the grip of the other, was fumbling for the 9
mm Noiseless holstered at his belt.
Rex Donaldson, a small handgun magically in his hand, was standing,
half crouched on his thin, bent legs. The two brothers from Trinidad
hadn't moved, their eyes bugging.
Moroka was spinning with the momentum of the sudden attack he'd made
on his new chief. Now there was a gun in his own hand and he was
darting for the tent opening.