The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  “Fine,” Homer told him. “Come on Abe, let’s get our things together.”

  “What do we do while you chaps are gone?” Elmer Allen said sourly. “I wouldn’t mind a period in a city myself.”

  “Read a book, man,” Abe told him. “Improve your mind.”

  “I’ve read a book,” Elmer said glumly. “Any other ideas?”

  * * * *

  Dakar is a big, bustling, prosperous and modern city shockingly set down in the middle of the poverty that is Africa. It should be, by its appearance, on the French Riviera, on the California coast, or possibly that of Florida, but it isn’t. It’s in Senegal, in the area once known as French West Africa.

  Their aircraft swept in and landed at the busy airport.

  They were assigned an African Development Project air-cushion car and drove into the city proper.

  Dakar boasts some of the few skyscrapers in all Africa. The Reunited Nations occupied one of these in its entirety. Dakar was the center of activities for the whole Western Sahara and down into the Sudan. Across the street from its offices, a street still named Rue des Résistance in spite of the fact that the French were long gone, was the Hotel Juan-les-Pins.

  * * * *

  Crawford and Abe Baker had radioed ahead and accommodations were ready for them. Their western clothing and other gear had been brought up from storage in the cellar.

  At the desk, the clerk didn’t blink at the Tuareg costume the two still wore. This was commonplace. He probably wouldn’t have blinked had Isobel arrived in the costume of the Dogon. “Your suite is ready, Dr. Crawford,” he said.

  The manager came up and shook hands with an old customer and Homer Crawford introduced him to Isobel, Jake and Cliff, requesting he do his best for them. He and Abe then made their excuses and headed for the paradise of hot water, towels, western drink and the other amenities of civilization.

  On the way up in the elevator, Abe said happily, “Man, I can just taste that bath I’m going to take. Crazy!”

  “Personally,” Crawford said, trying to reflect some of the other’s typically lighthearted enthusiasm, “I have in mind a few belts out of a bottle of stone-age cognac, then a steak yea big and a flock of French fries, followed by vanilla ice cream.”

  Abe’s eyes went round. “Man, you mean we can’t get a good dish of cous cous in this town?”

  “Cous cous,” Crawford said in agony.

  Abe made his voice so soulful. “With a good dollop of rancid camel butter right on top.”

  Homer laughed as they reached their floor and started for the suite. “You make it sound so good, I almost believe you.” Inside he said, “Dibbers on the first bath. How about phoning down for a bottle of Napoleon and some soda and ice? When it comes, just mix me one and bring it in, that hand you see emerging from the soap bubbles in that tub, will be mine.”

  “I hear and obey, O Bwana!” Abe said in a servile tone.

  By the time they’d cleaned up and had eaten an enormous western style meal in the dining room of the Juan-les-Pins, it was well past the hour when they could have made contact with their Reunited Nations superiors. They had a couple of cognacs in the bar, then, whistling happily, Abe Baker went out on the town.

  Homer Crawford looked up Isobel, Jake and Cliff who had, sure enough, found accommodations in the same hotel.

  Isobel stepped back in mock surprise when she saw Crawford in western garb. “Heavens to Betsy,” she said. “The man is absolutely extinguished in a double-breasted charcoal gray.”

  He tried a scowl and couldn’t manage it. “The word is distinguished, not extinguished,” he said. He looked down at the suit, critically. “You know, I feel uncomfortable. I wonder if I’ll be able to sit down in a chair instead of squatting.” He looked at her own evening frock. “Wow,” he said.

  Cliff Jackson said menacingly, “None of that stuff, Crawford. Isobel has already been asked for, let’s have no wolfing around.”

  Isobel said tartly, “Asked for but she didn’t answer the summons.” She took Homer by the arm. “And I just adore extinguish—oops, I mean distinguished looking men.”

  They trooped laughingly into the hotel cocktail lounge.

  The time passed pleasantly. Jake and Cliff were good men in a field close to Homer Crawford’s heart. Isobel was possibly the most attractive woman he’d ever met. They discussed in detail each other’s work and all had stories of wonder to describe.

  Crawford wondered vaguely if there was ever going to be a time, in this life of his, for a woman and all that one usually connects with womanhood. What was it Elmer Allen had said at the Timbuktu meeting? “…most of us will be kept busy the rest of our lives at this.”

  In his present state of mind, it didn’t seem too desirable a prospect. But there was no way out for such as Homer Crawford. What had Cliff Jackson said at the same meeting? “We do what we must do.” Which, come to think of it, didn’t jibe too well with Cliff’s claim at Mopti to be in it solely for the job. Probably the man disguised his basic idealism under a cloak of cynicism; if so, he wouldn’t be the first.

  They said their goodnights early. All of them were used to Sahara hours. Up at dawn, to bed shortly after sunset; the desert has little fuel to waste on illumination.

  In the suite again, Homer Crawford noted that Abe hadn’t returned as yet. He snorted deprecation. The younger man would probably be out until dawn. Dakar had much to offer in the way of civilization’s fleshpots.

  He took up the bottle of cognac and poured himself a healthy shot, wishing that he’d remembered to pick up a paperback at the hotel’s newsstand before coming to bed.

  He swirled the expensive brandy in the glass and brought it to his nose to savor the bouquet.

  But fifteen-year-old brandy from the cognac district of France should not boast a bouquet involving elements of bitter almonds. With an automatic startled gesture, Crawford jerked his face away from the glass.

  He scowled down at it for a long moment, then took up the bottle and sniffed it. He wondered how a would-be murderer went about getting hold of cyanide in Dakar.

  Homer Crawford phoned the desk and got the manager. Somebody had been in the suite during his absence. Was there any way of checking?

  He didn’t expect satisfaction and didn’t receive any. The manager, after finding that nothing seemed to be missing, seemed to think that perhaps Dr. Crawford had made a mistake. Homer didn’t bother to tell him about the poisoned brandy. He hung up, took the bottle into the bathroom and poured it away.

  In the way of precautions, he checked the windows to see if there were any possibilities of entrance by an intruder, locked the door securely, put his handgun beneath his pillow and fell off to sleep. When and if Abe returned, he could bang on the door.

  * * * *

  In the morning, clad in American business suits and frankly feeling a trifle uncomfortable in them, Homer Crawford and Abraham Baker presented themselves at the offices of the African Development Project, Sahara Division, of the Reunited Nations. Uncharacteristically, there was no waiting in anterooms, no dealing with subordinates. Dr. Crawford and his lieutenant were ushered directly to the office of Sven Zetterberg.

  Upon their entrance the Swede came to his feet, shook hands abruptly with both of them and sat down again. He scowled at Abe and said to Homer in excellent English, “It was requested that your team remain in Mopti.” Then he added, “Sit down, gentlemen.”

  They took chairs. Crawford said mildly, “Mr. Baker is my right-hand man. I assume he’d take over the team if anything happened to me.” He added dryly, “Besides, there were a few things he felt he had to do about town.”

  Abe cleared his throat but remained silent.

  Zetterberg continued to frown but evidently for a different reason now. He said, “There have been more complaints about your…ah…cavalier tactics.”

  Homer looked at him but said nothing.

  Zetterberg said in irritation, “It becomes necessary to warn you almost every time
you come in contact with this office, Dr. Crawford.”

  Homer said evenly, “My team and I work in the field Dr. Zetterberg. We have to think on our feet and usually come to decisions in split seconds. Sometimes our lives are at stake. We do what we think best under the conditions. At any time your office feels my efforts are misdirected, my resignation is available.”

  The Swede cleared his throat. “The Arab Union has made a full complaint in the Reunited Nations of a group of our men massacring thirty-five of their troopers.”

  Homer said, “They were well into the Ahaggar with a convoy of modern weapons, obviously meant for adherents of theirs. Given the opportunity, the Arab Union would take over North Africa.”

  “This is no reason to butcher thirty-five men.”

  “We were fired upon first,” Crawford said.

  “That is not the way they tell it. They claim you ambushed them.”

  Abe put in innocently, “How would the Arab Union know? We didn’t leave any survivors.”

  Zetterberg glared at him. “It is not easy, Mr. Baker, for we who do the paper work involved in this operation, to account for the activities of you hair-trigger men in the field.”

  “We appreciate your difficulties,” Homer said evenly. “But we can only continue to do what we think best on being confronted with an emergency.”

  The Swede drummed his fingers on the desk top. “Perhaps I should remind you that the policy of this project is to encourage amalgamation of the peoples of the area. Possibly, the Arab Union will prove to be the best force to accomplish such a union.”

  Abe grunted.

  Homer Crawford was shaking his head. “You don’t believe that Dr. Zetterberg, and I doubt if there are many non-Moslems who do. Mohammed sprung out of the deserts and his religion is one based on the surroundings, both physical and socio-economic.”

  Zetterberg grumbled, argumentatively, though his voice lacked conviction, “So did its two sister religions, Judaism and Christianity.”

  Crawford waggled a finger negatively. “Both of them adapted to changing times, with considerable success. Islam has remained the same and in all the world there is not one example of a highly developed socio-economic system in a Moslem country. The reason is that in your country, and mine, and in the other advanced countries of the West, we pay lip service to our religions, but we don’t let them interfere with our day by day life. But the Moslem, like the rapidly disappearing ultra-orthodox Jews, lives his religion every day and by the rules set down by the Prophet fifteen centuries ago. Everything a Moslem does from the moment he gets up in the morning is all mapped out in the Koran. What fingers of the hand to eat with, what hand to break bread with—and so on and so forth. It can get ludicrous. You should see the bathroom of a wealthy Moslem in some modern city such as Tangier. Mohammed never dreamed of such institutions as toilet paper. His followers still obey the rules he set down as an alternative.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “That North Africa cannot be united under the banner of Islam if she is going to progress rapidly. If it ever unites, it will be in spite of local religions—Islam and pagan as well; they hold up the wheels of progress.”

  Zetterberg stared at him. The truth of the matter was that he agreed with the American and they both knew it.

  He said, “This matter of physically assaulting and then arresting the chieftain”—he looked down at a paper on his desk—“of the Ouled Touameur clan of the Chaambra confederation, Abd-el-Kader. From your report, the man was evidently attempting to unify the tribes.”

  Crawford was shaking his head impatiently. “No. He didn’t have the…dream. He was a raider, a racketeer, not a leader of purposeful men. Perhaps it’s true that these people need a hero to act as a symbol for them, but he can’t be such as Abd-el-Kader.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” the Swede said grudgingly. “See here, have you heard reports of a group of Cubans, in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan to help with the new sugar refining there, being attacked?”

  The eyes of both Crawford and Baker narrowed. There’d been talk about this at Timbuktu. “Only a few rumors,” Crawford said.

  The Swede drummed his desk with his nervous fingers. “The rumors are correct. The whole group was either killed or wounded.” He said suddenly, “You had nothing to do with this, I suppose?”

  Crawford held his palms up, in surprise, “My team has never been within a thousand miles of Khartoum.”

  Zetterberg said, “See here, we suspect the Cubans might have supported Soviet Complex viewpoints.”

  Crawford shrugged, “I know nothing about them at all.”

  Zetterberg said, “Do you think this might be the work of El Hassan and his followers?”

  Abe started to chuckle something, but Homer shook his head slightly in warning and said, “I don’t know.”

  “How did that affair in Mopti turn out, these riots in favor of El Hassan?”

  Homer Crawford shrugged. “Routine. Must have been as many as ten thousand of them at one point. We used standard tactics in gaining control and then dispersing them. I’ll have a complete written report to you before the day is out.”

  Zetterberg said, “You’ve heard about this El Hassan before?”

  “Quite a bit.”

  “From the rumors that have come into this office, he backs neither East nor West in international politics. He also seems to agree with your summation of the Islamic problem. He teaches separation of Church and State.”

  “They’re the same thing in Moslem countries,” Abe muttered.

  Zetterberg tossed his bombshell out of a clear sky. “Dr. Crawford,” he snapped, “in spite of the warnings we’ve had to issue to you repeatedly, you are admittedly our best man in the field. We’re giving you a new assignment. Find this El Hassan and bring him here!”

  Zetterberg leaned forward, an expression of somewhat anxious sincerity in his whole demeanor.

  VIII

  Abe Baker choked, and then suddenly laughed.

  Sven Zetterberg stared at him. “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, nothing,” Abe admitted. He looked to Homer Crawford.

  Crawford said to the Swede carefully, “Why?”

  Zetterberg said impatiently, “Isn’t it obvious, after the conversation we’ve had here? Possibly this El Hassan is the man we’re looking for. Perhaps this is the force that will bind North Africa together. Thus far, all we’ve heard about him has been rumor. We don’t seem to be able to find anyone who has seen him, nor is the exact strength of his following known. We’d like to confer with him, before he gets any larger.”

  Crawford said carefully, “It’s hard to track down a rumor.”

  “That’s why we give the assignment to our best team in the field,” the Swede told him. “You’ve got a roving commission. Find El Hassan and bring him here to Dakar.”

  Abe grinned and said, “Suppose he doesn’t want to come?”

  “Use any methods you find necessary. If you need more manpower, let us know. But we must talk to El Hassan.”

  Homer said, still watching his words, “Why the urgency?”

  The Reunited Nations official looked at him for a long moment, as though debating whether to let him in on higher policy. “Because, frankly, Dr. Crawford, the elements which first went together to produce the African Development Project, are, shall we say, becoming somewhat unstuck.”

  “The glue was never too strong,” Abe muttered.

  Zetterberg nodded. “The attempt to find competent, intelligent men to work for the project, who were at the same time altruistic and unaffected by personal or national interests, has always been a difficult one. If you don’t mind my saying so, we Scandinavians, particularly those not affiliated with NATO come closest to filling the bill. We have no designs on Africa. It is unfortunate that we have practically no Negro citizens who could do field work.”

  “Are you suggesting other countries have designs on Africa?” Homer said.

  For the first time
the Swede laughed. A short, choppy laugh. “Are you suggesting they haven’t? What was that convoy of the Arab Union bringing into the Sahara? Guns, with which to forward their cause of taking over all North Africa. What were those Cubans doing in Sudan, that someone else felt it necessary to assassinate them? What is the program of the Soviet Complex as it applies to this area, and how does it differ from that of the United States? And how do the ultimate programs of the British Commonwealth and the French Community differ from each other and from both the United States and Russia?”

  “That’s why we have a Reunited Nations,” Crawford said calmly.

  “Theoretically, yes. But it is coming apart at the seams. I sometimes wonder if an organization composed of a membership each with its own selfish needs can ever really unite in an altruistic task. Remember the early days when the Congo was first given her freedom? Supposedly the United Nations went in to help. Actually, each element in the United Nations had its own irons in the fire, and usually their desires differed.”

  The Swede shrugged hugely. “I don’t know, but I am about convinced, and so are a good many other officers of this project, that unless we soon find a competent leader to act as a symbol around which all North Africans can unite, find such a man and back him, that all our work will crumble in this area under pressure from outside. That’s why we want El Hassan.”

  Homer Crawford came to his feet, his face in a scowl. “I’ll let you know by tomorrow, if I can take the assignment,” he said.

  “Why tomorrow?” the Swede demanded.

  “There are some ramifications I have to consider.”

  “Very well,” the Swede said stiffly. He came to his own feet and shook hands with them again. “Oh, there’s just one other thing. This spontaneous meeting you held in Timbuktu with elements from various other organizations. How did it come out?”

  Crawford was wary. “Very little result, actually.”

  Zetterberg chuckled. “As I expected. However, we would appreciate it, doctor, if you and your team would refrain from such activities in the future. You are, after all, hired by the Reunited Nations and owe it all your time and allegiance. We have no desire to see you fritter away this time with religious fanatics and other crackpot groups.”