"Let's see who they are, before we start requisitioning their
property," Homer said dryly.
The two desert trucks had hardly come to a halt before the camouflaged
tents and hover-lorries of El Hassan's small encampment before a
heavy-set, gray haired Negro, whose energy belied his weight, bounced
down from the seat adjacent to the driver's in the lead vehicle and
stomped belligerently to the group before the tent.
"What is the meaning of this?" he snapped.
Homer Crawford looked at him. "I'm sure I don't know as yet, Dr.
Smythe. Neither you nor these followers of mine have informed me as to
what has transpired. Won't you enter my quarters here and we'll go
into it under more comfortable conditions?" He glanced upward at the
midday Saharan sun.
The other seemed taken aback at Crawford calling him by name. He
squinted at the man who was seemingly his captor.
"Crawford!" he snapped. "Dr. Homer Crawford! See here, what is the
meaning of this?"
Homer said, "Dr. Warren Harding Smythe, may I present Isobel
Cunningham, Clifford Jackson and David Moroka, of my staff?"
"Huuump. I met Miss Cunningham and, I believe, Mr. Jackson at that
ridiculous meeting in Timbuktu, a short time ago." The doctor peered
over his glasses at Moroka.
The wiry South African nodded his head. "A pleasure, Doctor." He held
open the tent entrance.
Smythe snorted again and stomped inside to escape the sun's glare.
In the shade of the tent's interior, Isobel clucked at him and hurried
to get a drink of water from a moist water cooler. Homer Crawford
motioned the other to a seat, and took one himself. "Now then, Dr.
Smythe."