"I'll show you," Homer said, stuffing extra clips in his bush jacket
pockets. "Come on, Dave."
The whole group began heading for the open air, Bey already yelling
orders.
Fredric Ostrander looked at Dave Moroka. "Strange bedfellows," he
said.
Moroka grinned wryly. "My long view hasn't changed," he said. "It's
just that this African matter takes precedence right now."
"Nor mine, of course," Ostrander said. He cleared his throat.
"However, I hope you last out the night. El Hassan needs strong men."
"Same to you," Moroka said gruffly. "Let's get going, or the fight
will be over while we hand each other flowers."
_Epilogue_
El Hassan stood in the smoking, war-wasted ruin of Fort Laperine, his
mind empty. The body of Jack Peters was ten feet to his left, burned
beyond recognition and crumpled over a flame thrower which he'd
eliminated in the last few moments of the fighting. Had he let his
eyes go out the gun port before which he stood, it might have been
possible for El Hassan to have picked out the bodies of David Moroka
and Fredric Ostrander amidst those of the several hundred Haratin
serfs who had swarmed out of the souk area at the crucial moment and
stormed the half manned fort--unarmed save for knives and farm
implements.
To his right, Dr. Warren Harding Smythe supervised two Tuareg who were
carrying off the broken body of Kenny Ballalou; there was still faint
life in it.