The South African recovered. "I've heard several of you mention him
from time to time. He was a commie, wasn't he?"
"Yes," Homer said without inflection. "And a man. He saved my life on
more than one occasion. As long as we worked together with only Africa
in mind, there was no conflict. But Abe had a further, and, to him,
greater alliance."
He turned his attention back to the C.I.A. man. "A man does what he
must do," he finished simply. "I did not ask to become El Hassan."
Ostrander said, "Your motivation is possibly beside the point. The
thing is that the battle for men's minds continues and your program,
eventually, must align with the West."
"And get clobbered in the stampeding around between the two great
powers," Kenny said dryly.
"You've got to take your stand," Ostrander said. "I'd rather die under
the neutron bomb, than spend the rest of my life on my knees under a
Soviet Complex government. Wouldn't you?" His eyes went from one of
them to the other, defiantly.
Homer said slowly. "No, even though that was the only alternative,
which is unlikely. Not if it meant finishing off the whole human race
at the same time." He shook his head. "If it were only me, it might be
different. But if it was a matter of nuclear war the whole race might
well end. Given such circumstances, I'd be proud to remain on my
knees the rest of my life. You see, Ostrander, you make the mistake of
thinking the Soviet socio-economic system is a permanent thing. It
isn't. It's changing daily, even as our own socio-economic system is.
Even if the Soviet Complex were to dominate the whole world, it would
be but a temporary phase in man's history. Their regime, in its time,
right or wrong, will go under in man's march to whatever his destiny
might be. Some day it will be only a memory, and so will the
socio-economic systems of the West. No institutions are less permanent
than politico-economic ones."
"I don't agree with you," Ostrander snapped.
"Obviously," Homer shrugged. "However, this is another problem. El
Hassan deals with North Africa. The other problems you bring up we
admit, but at this stage are not dealing with them. Our dream is in
Africa. Perhaps the Africans will be forced to taking other stands, to
dreaming new dreams, twenty or thirty years from now. When that time
comes, I assume the new problems will be faced. By that time there
will probably be no need for El Hassan."
Ostrander looked at him and bit his lip in thought.
It came to him now that he had never won in his contests with Homer
Crawford, and that he would probably never win. No matter how strong
his convictions, in the presence of the other man, something went out
of him. There was strength in Crawford that must be experienced to be
understood. When he talked, he held you, and your own opinions became
nothing--stupidities on your lips. He had a dream, and in conversation
with him, all other things dropped away and nothing was of importance
but that dream. A dream? Possibly _disease_ was the better word. And
so highly contagious.
[Illustration]
While they talked, an aide had entered and handed a report to
Bey-ag-Akhamouk. He read it and closed his eyes in weariness.
"What's up, Bey," Homer asked.
"I don't know. Colonel Ibrahim has stepped up his attacks in all
directions. At least two thirds of his force is on the offensive. It
doesn't make much sense. But it must make sense to _him_, or he
wouldn't be doing it."
Ostrander said, and to everyone's surprise there seemed to be an
element of worry in his voice too, "I know Colonel Midan Ibrahim, met
him in Cairo and in Baghdad on various occasions. He's considered one
of the best men in the Arab Legion. He doesn't make military
blunders."
Bey said, "Come on, Kenny. Let's round up Guemama and take a look at
the front." He led the way from the tent.
* * * * *
There was a guard posted before the tent which doubled as press and
communications center, and the private quarters of David Moroka.
The figure that approached timidly was garbed in the traditional
clothing of the young women of the Tegehe Mellet tribe of the Tuareg
and bore an _imzad_ in her left hand, while her right held a corner of
her gandoura over her face.
The guard, of the Kel Rela tribe, eyed the one-stringed violin with
its string of hair and sounding box made of half a gourd covered with
a thin membrane of skin, and grinned. A Tuareg maid was accustomed to
sing and to make the high whining tones of desert music on the _imzad_
before submitting to her lover's embrace. _Wallahi!_ but these women
of the Tegehe Mellet were shameless.
"Where do you go?" he said gruffly. "El Hassan's vizier has ordered
that he is occupied and none should approach."
"He awaits me," she wavered. There was _kohl_ about her eyes, and
indigo at the corners of her mouth. "We met at the _tendi_ last night
and he bid me come to his tent. It is for me he waits."
_Wallahi!_ but his leader had taste, the sentry decided.
"Pass," he said gruffly. Even a vizier of such importance as this one
must need solace at times, he decided philosophically.
She slipped past silently to the tent entrance where the Tuareg guard
noticed she paused for a long moment before entering. He grinned into
his teguelmoust. Aiii, the little bird was timid before the hawk.
She stood for a moment listening, and then slipped inside, dropping
the desert musical instrument to the ground. Dave Moroka's back was to
her and even as she entered he flicked off the switch of the
video-radio into which he had been speaking and scowled at it.
When he stood and began to turn, she covered him with the small pocket
pistol. She had an ease in handling it which denoted competence.
His eyebrows went up, but he remained silent, waiting for her gambit.