Homer shot a quick, impatient look at her. "The good doctor and his
people are in the Sahara to work with the Tuareg and the Teda and the
rest of the bedouin. Beyond that, he has the same dream we have--of
developing this continent of our racial background."
"But he doesn't believe in your methods, Homer, and we're forcing him
to follow El Hassan's road in spite of his beliefs."
Moroka had been peering at the two of them narrowly. "You don't make
omelets without breaking eggs," he said, his voice on the overbearing
side.
She spun on him. "But the omelets don't turn out so well if some of
the eggs you use are rotten."
The South African's voice turned gentle. "Miss Cunningham," he said,
"working in the field, like this, can have its rugged side for a young
and delicate woman--"
"_Delicate!_" she snapped. "I'll have you know--"
"Hey, everybody, hold it," Cliff injected. "What goes on?"
Dave Moroka shrugged. "It just seems to me that Isobel might do better
back in Dakar, or in New York with your friend Jake Armstrong.
Somewhere where her sensibilities wouldn't be so bruised, and where
her assets"--his eyes went up and down her lithe body--"could be put
to better use."
Isobel's sepia face had gone a shade or more lighter. She said, very
flatly, "My assets, Mr. Moroka, are in my head."