The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  Isobel said, “Well, certainly that’s preferable to firing on them.”

  Homer looked at her oddly. “Possibly. However, I was standing next to the Moorish boy who was cut entirely in half by the pressure spray of water.”

  The expression on the girl’s face sickened.

  Homer said, “They had another interesting device for dispersing mobs. It was a noise bomb. The French set off several.”

  “A noise bomb?” Cliff said. “I don’t get it.”

  “They make a tremendous noise, but do nothing else. However, members of the mob who aren’t really too interested in the whole thing—just sort of along for the fun—figure that things are getting earnest and that the troops are shelling them. So they remember some business they had elsewhere and take off.”

  Isobel said suddenly, “You like this sort of work, don’t you?”

  Elmer Allen grunted bitterly.

  “No,” Homer Crawford said flatly. “I don’t. But I like the goal.”

  “And the end justifies the means?”

  Homer Crawford said slowly, “I’ve never answered that to my own satisfaction. But I’ll say this. I’ve never met a person, no matter how idealistic, no matter how much he played lip service to the contention that the ends do not justify the means, who did not himself use the means he found available to reach the ends he believed correct. It seems to be a matter of each man feeling the teaching applies to everyone else, but that he is free to utilize any means to achieve his own noble ends.”

  “Man, all that jazz is too much for me,” Abe said.

  They were entering the outskirts of Mopti. Small groups of obviously excited Africans of various tribal groups, were heading for the center of town.

  “Abe, Jake,” Crawford said. “We’ll drop you here. Mingle around. We’ll hold the big meeting in front of the Great Mosque in an hour or so.”

  “Crazy,” Abe said, dropping off the back of the truck which Kenny Ballalou, who was driving, brought almost to a complete stop. The older Jake followed him.

  The rest went on a quarter of a mile and dropped Bey and Cliff.

  Homer said to Kenny, “Park the truck somewhere near the spice market. Preferably inside some building, if you can. For all we know, they’re already turning over vehicles and burning them.”

  Crawford and Isobel dropped off near the pottery market, on the banks of the Niger. The milling throngs here were largely women. Elements of half a dozen tribes and races were represented.

  Homer Crawford stood a moment. He ran a hand back over his short hair and looked at her. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Now I’m sorry we brought you along.” He leaned on his staff and looked at her worriedly. “You’re not very…ah, husky, are you?”

  She laughed at him. “Get about your business, sir knight. I spent nearly two weeks living with these people once. I know dozens of them by name. Watch this cat operate, as Abe would say.”

  She darted to one of the over-turned pirogues which had been dragged up on the bank from the river, and climbed atop it. She held her hands high and began a stream of what was gibberish to Crawford who didn’t understand Wolof, the Senegalese lingua franca. Some elements of the crowd began drifting in her direction. She spoke for a few moments, the only words the surprised Homer Crawford could make out were El Hassan. And she used them often.

  She switched suddenly to Arabic, and he could follow her now. The drift of her talk was that word had come through that El Hassan was to make a great announcement in the near future and that meanwhile all his people were to await his word. But that there was to be a great meeting before the Mosque within the hour.

  She switched again to Songhoi and repeated substantially what she’d said before. By now she had every woman hanging on her words.

  A man on the outskirts of the gathering called out in high irritation, “But what of the storming of the administration buildings? Our leaders have proclaimed the storming of the reactionaries!”

  Crawford, leaning heavily on the pilgrim staff, drifted over to the other. “Quiet, O young one,” he said. “I wish to listen to the words of the girl who tells of the teachings of the great El Hassan.”

  The other turned angrily on him. “Be silent thyself, old man!” He raised a hand as though to cuff the American.

  Homer Crawford neatly rapped him on the right shin bone with his quarterstaff to the other’s intense agony. The women who witnessed the brief spat dissolved in laughter at the plight of the younger man. Homer Crawford drifted away again before the heckler recovered.

  He let Isobel handle the bulk of the reverse-rabble rousing. His bit was to come later, and as yet he didn’t want to reveal himself to the throngs.

  * * * *

  They went from one gathering place of women to another. To the spice market, to the fish and meat market, to the bathing and laundering locations along the river. And everywhere they found animated groups of women, Isobel went into her speech.

  At one point, while Homer stood idly in the crowd, feeling its temper and the extent to which the girl was dominating them, he felt someone press next to him.

  A voice said, “What is the plan of operation, Yank?”

  Homer Crawford’s eyebrows went up and he shot a quick glance at the other. It was Rex Donaldson of the Commonwealth African Department. The operative who worked as the witchman, Dolo Anah. Crawford was glad to see him. This was Donaldson’s area of operations, the man must have got here almost as soon as Crawford’s team, when he had heard of the trouble.

  Crawford said in English, “They’ve been gathering for an outbreak of violence, evidently directed at the Reunited Nations projects administration buildings. I’ve seen a few banners calling for El Hassan to come to power, Africa for the Africans, that sort of thing.”

  The small Bahamian snorted. “You chaps certainly started something with this El Hassan farce. What are your immediate plans? How can I co-operate with you?”

  A teenage boy who had been heckling Isobel, stooped now to pick up some dried cow dung. Almost absently, Crawford put his staff between the other’s legs and tripped him up, when the lad sprawled on his face the American rapped him smartly on the head.

  Crawford said, “Thanks a lot, we can use you, especially since you speak Dogon, I don’t think any of my group does. We’re going to hold a big meeting in front of the square and give them a long monotonous talk, saying little but sounding as though we’re promising a great deal. When we’ve taken most of the steam out of them, we’ll locate the ringleaders and have a big indoor meeting. My boys will be spotted throughout the gang. They’ll nominate me to be spokesman, and nominate each other to be my committee and we’ll be sent to find El Hassan and urge him to take power. That should keep them quiet for a while. At least long enough for headquarters in Dakar to decide what to do.”

  “Good Heavens,” Donaldson said in admiration. “You Yanks are certainly good at this sort of thing.”

  “Takes practice,” Homer Crawford said. “If you want to help, ferret out the groups who speak Dogon and give them the word.”

  Out of a sidestreet came running Abe Baker at the head of possibly two or three hundred arm waving, shouting, stick brandishing Africans. A few of them had banners which were being waved in such confusion that nobody could read the words inscribed. Most of them seemed to be younger men, even teen-agers.

  “Good Heavens,” Donaldson said again.

  At first snap opinion, Crawford thought his assistant was being pursued and started forward to the hopeless rescue, but then he realized that Abe was heading the mob. Waving his staff, the New Yorker was shouting slogans, most of which had something to do with “El Hassan” but otherwise were difficult to make out.

  The small mob charged out of the street and through the square, still shouting. Abe began to drop back into the ranks, and then to the edge of the charging, gesticulating crowd. Already, though, some of them seemed to be slowing up, even stopping and drifting away, puzzlement or frustration on their fac
es.

  Those who were still at excitement’s peak, charged up another street at the other side of the square.

  In a few moments, Abe Baker came up to them, breathing hard and wiping sweat from his forehead. He grinned wryly. “Man, those cats are way out. This is really Endsville.” He looked up at where Isobel was haranguing her own crowd, which hadn’t been fazed by the men who’d charged through the square going nowhere. “Look at old Isobel up there. Man, this whole town’s like a combination of Hyde Park and Union Square. You oughta hear old Jake making with a speech.”

  “What just happened?” Homer asked, motioning with his head to where the last elements of the mob Abe’d been leading were disappearing down a dead-end street.

  “Ah, nothing,” Abe said, still watching Isobel and grinning at her. “Those cats were the nucleus of a bunch wanted to start some action. Burn a few cars, raid the library, that sort of jazz. So I took over for a while, led them up one street and down the other. I feel like I just been star at a track meet.”

  “Good Heavens,” Donaldson said still again.

  “They’re all scattered around now,” Abe explained to him. “Either that or their tongues are hanging out to the point they’ll have to take five to have a beer. They’re finished for a while.”

  Isobel finished her little talk and joined them. “What gives now?” she asked.

  Rex Donaldson said, “I’d like to stay around and watch you chaps operate. It’s fascinating. However, I’d better get over to the park. That’s probably where the greater number of the Dogon will be.” He grumbled sourly, “I’ll roast those blokes with a half dozen bits of magic and send them all back to Sangha. It’ll be donkey’s years before they ever show face around here again.” He left them.

  Homer Crawford looked after him. “Good man,” he said.

  Abe had about caught his breath. “What gives now, man?” he said. “I ought to get back to Jake. He’s all alone up near the mosque.”

  “It’s about time all of us got over there,” Crawford said. He looked at Isobel as they walked. “How does it feel being a sort of reverse agent provocateur?”

  Her forehead was wrinkled, characteristically. “I suppose it has to be done, but frankly, I’m not too sure just what we are doing. Here we go about pushing these supposed teachings of El Hassan and when we’re taken up by the people and they actually attempt to accomplish what we taught them, we draw in on the reins.”

  “Man, you’re right,” Abe said unhappily. He looked at his chief. “What’d you say, Homer?”

  “Of course she’s right,” Crawford growled. “It’s just premature, is all. There’s no program, no plan of action. If there was one, this thing here in Mopti might be the spark that united all North Africa. As it is, we have to put the damper on it until there is a definite program.” He added sourly, “I’m just wondering if the Reunited Nations is the organization that can come up with one. And, if it isn’t, where is there one?”

  The mosque loomed up before them. The square before it was jam packed with milling Africans.

  “Great guns,” Isobel snorted, “there’re more people here than the whole population of Mopti. Where’d they all come from?”

  “They’ve been filtering in from the country,” Crawford said.

  “Well, we’ll filter ’em back,” Abe promised.

  * * * *

  They spotted a ruckus and could see Elmer Allen in the middle of it, his quarterstaff flailing.

  “On the double,” Homer bit out, and he and Abe broke into a trot for the point of conflict. The idea was to get this sort of thing over as quickly as possible before it had a chance to spread.

  They arrived too late. Elmer was leaning on his staff, as though needing it for support, and explaining mildly to two men who evidently were friends of a third who was stretched out on the ground, dead to the world and with a nasty lump on his shaven head.

  Homer came up and said to Elmer, in Songhai, “What has transpired, O Holy One?” He made a sign of obeisance to the Jamaican.

  The two Africans were taken aback by the term of address. They were unprepared to continue further debate, not to speak of physical action, against a holy man.

  Elmer said with dignity, “He spoke against El Hassan, our great leader.”

  For a moment the two Africans seemed to be willing to deny that, but Abe Baker took up the cue and turned to the crowd that was beginning to gather. He held his hands out, palms upward questioningly, “And why should these young men beset a Holy One whose only crime is to love El Hassan?”

  The crowd began to murmur and the two hurriedly picked up their fallen companion and took off with him.

  Homer said in English, “What really happened?”

  “Oh, this chap was one of the hot heads,” Elmer explained. “Wanted some immediate action. I gave it to him.”

  Abe chuckled, “Holy One, yet.”

  Spotted through the square, holding forth to various gatherings of the mob were Jake Armstrong, Kenny Ballalou and Cliff Jackson. Even as Homer Crawford sized up the situation and the temper of the throngs of tribesmen, Bey entered the square from the far side at the head of two or three thousand more, most of whom were already beginning to look bored to death from talk, talk, talk.

  Isobel came up and looked questioningly at Homer Crawford.

  He said, “Abe, get the truck and drive it up before the entrance to the mosque. We’ll speak from that. Isobel can open the hoe down, get the crowd over and then introduce me.”

  Abe left and Crawford said to Isobel, “Introduce me as Omar ben Crawf, the great friend and assistant of El Hassan. Build it up.”

  “Right,” she said.

  Crawford said, “Elmer first round up the boys and get them spotted through the audience. You’re the cheerleaders and also the sergeants at arms, of course. Nail the hecklers quickly, before they can get organized among themselves. In short, the standard deal.” He thought a moment. “And see about getting a hall where we can hold a meeting of the ringleaders, those are the ones we’re going to have to cool out.”

  “Wizard,” Elmer said and was gone on his mission.

  Isobel and Homer stood for a moment, waiting for Abe and the truck.

  She said, “You seem to have this all down pat.”

  “It’s routine,” he said absently. “The brain of a mob is no larger than that of its minimum member. Any disciplined group, almost no matter how small can model it to order.”

  “Just in case we don’t have the opportunity to get together again, what happens at the hall meeting of ringleaders? What do Jake, Cliff and I do?”

  “What comes naturally,” Homer said. “We’ll elect each other to the most important positions. But everybody else that seems to have anything at all on the ball will be elected to some committee or other. Give them jobs compiling reports to El Hassan or something. Keep them busy. Give Reunited Nations headquarters in Dakar time to come up with something.”

  She said worriedly, “Suppose some of these ringleaders are capable, aggressive types and won’t stand for us getting all the important positions?”

  Crawford grunted. “We’re more aggressive and more capable. Let my team handle that. One of the boys will jump up and accuse the guy of being a spy and an enemy of El Hassan, and one of the other boys will bear him out, and a couple of others will hustle him out of the hall.” Homer yawned. “It’s all routine, Isobel.”

  Abe was driving up the truck.

  Crawford said, “O.K., let’s go, gal.”

  “Roger,” she said, climbing first into the back of the vehicle and then up onto the roof of the cab.

  Isobel held her hands high above her head and in the cab Abe bore down on the horn for a long moment.

  Isobel shrilled, “Hear what the messenger from El Hassan has come to tell us! Hear the friend and devoted follower of El Hassan!”

  At the same time, Jake, Kenny, and Cliff discontinued their own harangues and themselves headed for the new speaker.

&nbs
p; * * * *

  They stayed for three days and had it well wrapped up in that time. The tribesmen, bored when the excitement fell away and it became obvious that there were to be no further riots, and certainly no violence, drifted back to their villages. The city dwellers returned to the routine of daily existence. And the police, who had mysteriously disappeared from the streets at the height of the demonstrations, now magically reappeared and began asserting their authority somewhat truculently.

  At the hall meetings, mighty slogans were drafted and endless committees formed. The more articulate, the more educated and able of the demonstrators were marked out for future reference, but for the moment given meaningless tasks to keep them busy and out of trouble.

  On the fourth day, Homer Crawford received orders to proceed to Dakar, leaving the rest of the team behind to keep an eye on the situation.

  Abe groaned, “There’s luck for you. Dakar, nearest thing to a good old sin city in a thousand miles. And who gets to go? Old sour puss, here. Got no more interest in the hot spots—”

  Homer said, “You can come along, Abe.”

  Kenny Ballalou said, “Orders were only you, Homer.”

  Crawford growled, “Yes, but I have a suspicion I’m being called on the carpet for one of our recent escapades and I want backing if I need it.” He added, “Besides, nothing is going to happen here.”

  “Crazy man,” Abe said appreciatively.

  Jake said, “We three were planning to head for Dakar today ourselves. Isobel, in particular, is exhausted and needs a prolonged rest before going out among the natives any more. You might as well continue to let us supply your transportation.”