The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  It was then that the woman in front of him, without turning, said softly, “El Hassan?”

  II

  Homer Crawford stared at her, unbelievingly. The woman couldn’t possibly be an emissary from Isobel or from one of his own companions. This situation demanded the utmost secrecy, they hadn’t had time to screen any outsiders as to trustworthiness.

  She turned. It was Isobel. She chuckled softly, “You should see your face.”

  His eyes went to her figure.

  “Done with mirrors,” Isobel said. “Or, at least, with pillows.”

  Homer didn’t waste time. “Where are the others? They should be here by now.”

  “We figured that the fewer of us seen on the streets, the better. So they’re waiting for you. Since I was the most easily disguised, the least suspicious looking, I was elected to come get you.”

  “Waiting where?”

  She licked the side of her mouth, a disconcerting characteristic of hers, and looked at him archly. “Those pals of yours have quite a bit on the ball on their own. They decided that there was a fairly good chance that Sven Zetterberg wasn’t exactly going to fall into your arms, so they took preliminary measures. Kenny Ballalou rented a small house, here in the native quarter. We’ve all rendezvoused there. See, you aren’t the only one on the ball.”

  Homer frowned at her, for the moment being in no mood for humor. “What was the idea of sitting here for the past five minutes without even speaking? You must have recognized me, knowing what to look for.”

  She nodded. “I…I wasn’t sure, Homer, but I had the darnedest feeling I was being followed.”

  His glance was sharp now. First at her, then a quick darting around the vicinity. “Woman’s intuition,” he snapped, “or something substantial?”

  She frowned at him. “I’m not a ninny, Homer.”

  His voice softened and he said quickly, “Don’t misunderstand, Isobel. I know that.”

  She forgot about her objection to his tone. “Even intuition doesn’t come out of a clear sky. Something sparks it. Subconscious psi, possibly, but a spark.”

  “However?” he prodded.

  “I took all precautions. I can’t seem to put my finger on anything.”

  “O.K.,” he said decisively. “Let’s go then.” He came to his feet and reached a hand down for her.

  “Heavens to Betsy,” she said, “don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Help a woman in public. You’ll look suspicious.” She came to her own feet, without aid.

  Damn, he thought. She was right. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to a man who acted peculiarly.

  * * * *

  They made their way out of the food market and into the souk proper, Homer walking three or four paces ahead of her, Isobel demurely behind, her eyes on the ground. They passed the native stands and tiny shops, and the even smaller venders and hucksters with their products of the mass production industries of East and West, side by side with the native handicrafts ranging from carved wooden statues, jewelry, gris gris charms and kambu fetishes, to ceramics whose designs went back to an age before the Portuguese first cruised off this coast. And everywhere was color; there are no people on earth more color conscious than the Senegalese.

  Isobel guided him, her voice quiet and still maintaining its uncharacteristic demure quality.

  He would never have recognized Isobel, Homer Crawford told himself. Isobel Cunningham, late of Columbia University where she’d taken her Master’s in anthropology. Isobel Cunningham, whom he had told on their first meeting that she looked like the former singing star, Lena Horne. Isobel Cunningham, slight of build, pixie of face, crisply modern American with her tongue and wit. Was he in love with her? He didn’t know. El Hassan had no time, at present, for those things love implied.

  She said, “Here,” and led the way down a brick paved passage to a small house, almost a hut, that lay beyond.

  Homer Crawford looked about him critically before entering. He said, “I suppose this has been scouted out adequately. Where’s the back entrance?” He scowled. “Haven’t the boys posted a sentry?”

  A voice next to his ear said pleasantly, “Stick ’em up, stranger. Where’d you get that zoot suit?”

  He jerked his head about. There was a very small opening in the wooden wall next to him. It was Kenny Ballalou’s voice.

  “Zoot suit, yet!” Homer snorted. “I haven’t heard that term since I was in rompers.”

  “You in rompers I’d like to see,” Kenny snorted in his turn. “Come on in, everybody’s here.”

  The aged, unpainted, warped, wooden house consisted of two rooms, the one three times as large as the second. The furniture was minimal, but there was sitting room on chair, stool and bed for the seven of them.

  “Hail, O El Hassan!” Elmer Allen called sourly, as Homer entered.

  “And the hail with you,” Homer called back, then, “Oops, sorry, Isobel.”

  Isobel put her hands on her hips, greatly widened by the stuffing she’d placed beneath her skirts. “Look,” she said. “Thus far, the El Hassan organization, which claims rule of all North Africa, consists of six men and one dame…ah, that is, one lady. Just so the lady won’t continually feel that she’s being a drag on the conversation, you are hereby allowed in moments of stress such shocking profanity as an occasional damn or hell. But only if said lady is also allowed such expletives during periods of similar stress.”

  Everyone laughed, and found chairs.

  “I’m in love with Isobel Cunningham,” Bey announced definitely.

  “Second the motion,” Elmer said.

  The rest of them called, “Aye.”

  “O.K.,” Homer Crawford said glumly, “I can see that this is going to be one tight knit organization. Six men in love with the one dame…ah, that is, lady. Kind of a reverse harem deal. Oh, this is going to lead to great co-operation.”

  * * * *

  They laughed again and then Jake said, “Well, what’s the story, Homer? How does the El Hassan project sound to Zetterberg and the Reunited Nations?”

  Cliff Jackson laughed bitterly. “Why do you think we’re in hiding?” Only he and Jake Armstrong wore western clothing. Kenny Ballalou, Bey-ag-Akhamouk and Elmer Allen were in native dress, similar to that of Homer Crawford. Elmer Allen even bore a pilgrim’s staff.

  * * * *

  Crawford, glad that the edge of tenseness had been taken off the group by the banter with Isobel, turned serious now.

  He said, “This is where we each take our stand. You can turn back at this point, any one of you, and things will undoubtedly go on as before. You’ll keep your jobs, have no marks against you. Beyond this point, and there’s no turning back. I want you all to think it over, before coming to any snap decisions.”

  Elmer Allen said, his face wearing its usual all but sullen expression. “How about you?”

  Homer said evenly, “I’ve already taken my stand.”

  Kenny Ballalou yawned and said, “I’ve been in this team for three or four years, I’m too lazy to switch now Besides, I’ve always wanted to be a corrupt politician. Can I be treasurer in this El Hassan regime?”

  “No,” Homer said. “Bey?”

  Bey-ag-Akhamouk said, “I’ve always wanted to be a general. I’ll come in under those circumstances.”

  Homer said, his voice still even. “That’s out. From this point in, you’re a Field Marshal and Minister of Defense.”

  “Shucks,” Bey said. “I’d always wanted to be a general.”

  Homer Crawford said dryly, “Doesn’t anybody take this seriously? It’s probably going to mean all your necks before it’s through, you know.”

  Elmer Allen said dourly, “I take it seriously. I spent the idealistic years, the school years, working for peace, democracy, a better world. Now, here I am, helping to attempt to establish a tyranny over half the continent of my racial background. But I’m in.”

  “Right,” Homer said, the side of his m
outh twitching. “You can be our Minister of Propaganda.”

  “Minister of Propaganda!” Elmer wailed. “You mean like Goebbels? Me!”

  Homer laughed. “O.K., we’ll call it Minister of Information, or Press Secretary to El Hassan. It all means the same thing.” He looked at Jacob Armstrong and said, “How old are you, Jake?”

  “That’s none of your business,” the white-haired Jake said aggressively. “I’m in. El Hassan is the only answer. North Africa has got to be united, both for internal and external purposes. If you…if we…don’t do the job first, somebody else will, and off hand, I can’t think of anybody else I trust. I’m in.”

  Homer Crawford looked at him for a long moment. “Yes,” he said finally. “Of course you are. Jake, you’ve just been made our combined Foreign Minister and Plenipotentiary Extraordinary to the Reunited Nations. You’ll leave immediately, first for Geneva, to present our demands to the Reunited Nations, then to New York.”

  “What do I do in New York?” Jake Armstrong said blankly, trying to assimilate the curves that were being thrown to him.

  “You raise money and support from starry eyed Negro groups and individuals. You line up such organizations as the Africa for Africans Association behind El Hassan. You give speeches, and ruin your liver eating at banquets every night in the week. You send out releases to the press. You get all the publicity for the El Hassan movement you can. You send official protests to the governments of every country in the world, every time they do something that doesn’t fit in with our needs. You locate recruits and send them here to Africa to take over some of the load. I don’t have to tell you what to do. You can think on your feet as well as I can. Do what is necessary. You’re our Foreign Minister. Don’t let us see your face again until El Hassan is in control of North Africa.”

  Jake Armstrong blinked. “How will I prove I’m your representative? I’ll need more than just a note To Whom It May Concern.”

  Homer Crawford thought about that.

  * * * *

  Bey said, “One of our first jobs is going to have to be to capture a town where they have a broadcast station, say Zinder or In Salah. When we do, we’ll announce that you’re Foreign Minister.”

  Crawford nodded. “That’s obviously the ticket. By that time you should be in New York, with an office opened.”

  Jake rubbed a black hand over his cheek as though checking his morning shave. “It’s going to take some money to get started. Once started I can depend on contributions, perhaps, but at first.…”

  Homer interrupted with, “Cliff, you’re Minister of the Treasury. Raise some money.”

  “Eh?” Cliff Jackson said blankly. The king-size, easy-going Californian looked more like the early Joe Louis than ever.

  Everybody laughed. Elmer Allen came forth with his wallet and began pulling out such notes as it contained. “I don’t know what we’d be doing with this in the desert,” he said.

  Isobel said, “I have almost three thousand dollars in a checking account in New York. Let’s see if I have my checkbook here.”

  The others were going through their pockets. As bank notes in British pounds, American dollars, French francs and Common Europe marks emerged they were tossed to the center of the small table which wobbled on three legs in the middle of the room.

  Elmer Allen said, “I have an account with the Bank of Jamaica in Kingston. About four hundred pounds, I think. I’ll have it transferred.”

  Cliff took up the money and began counting it, making notations on a notebook pad as he went.

  Bey said, “We’re only going to be able to give Jake part of this.”

  “How’s that?” Elmer growled. “What use have we for money in the Sahara? Jake’s got to put up a decent front in Geneva and New York.”

  Bey said doggedly, “As Defense Minister, I’m opposed to El Hassan’s followers ever taking anything without generous payment. We’ll need food and various services. From the beginning, we’re going to have to pay our way. We can’t afford to let rumors start going around that we’re nothing but a bunch of brigands.”

  “Bey’s right,” Homer nodded. “The El Hassan movement is going to have to maintain itself on the highest ethical level. We’re going to take over where the French Camel Corps left off and police North Africa. There can’t be a man from Somaliland to Mauretania who can say that one of El Hassan’s followers liberated him from as much as a date.”

  Kenny Ballalou said, “You can always requisition whatever you need and give them a receipt, and then we’ll pay off when we come to power.”

  “That’s out!” Bey snapped. “Most of these people can’t read. And even those that do don’t trust what they read. A piece of paper, in their eyes, is no return for some goats, or flour, camels, horses, or whatever else it might be we need. No, we’re going to have to pay our way.”

  Crawford raked a hand back through his wiry hair. “Bey’s right, Kenny. It’s going to be a rough go, especially at first.”

  Kenny snorted. “What do you mean, at first? What’s going to happen, at second to make it any easier? Where’re we going to get all this money we’ll need to pay for even what we ourselves use, not to speak of the thousands of men we’re going to have to have if El Hassan is ever to come to power?”

  Bey’s eyebrows went up in shocked innocence. “Kenny, dear boy, don’t misunderstand. We don’t requisition anything from individuals, or clans, or small settlements. But if we take over a town such as Gao, or Niamey, or Colomb-Béchar, or wherever, there is nothing to say that a legal government such as that of El Hassan, can’t requisition the contents of the local banks.”

  Homer Crawford said with dignity, “The term, my dear Minister of Defense, currently is to nationalize the bank. Whether or not we wish to have the banks remain nationalized, after we take over, we can figure out later. But in the early stages, I’m afraid we’re going to have to nationalize just about every bank we come in contact with.”

  Cliff Jackson said cautiously, “I haven’t said whether or not I’ll come in yet, but just as a point, I might mention issuing your own legal tender. As soon as you liberate a printing press somewhere, of course.”

  Everyone was charmed at the idea.

  Isobel said, “You can see Cliff was meant to be Minister of Treasury. He’s got wholesale larceny in his soul, none of this picayunish stuff such as robbing nomads of their sheep.”

  Elmer Allen was shaking his head sadly. “This whole conversation started with Bey protesting that we couldn’t allow ourselves to be thought of as brigands. Now listen to you all.”

  Kenny Ballalou said with considerable dignity, “See here, friend. Don’t you know the difference between brigandage and international finance?”

  “No,” Elmer said flatly.

  “Hm-m-m,” Kenny said.

  “Let’s get on with this,” Homer said. “The forming of El Hassan’s basic government is beginning to take on aspects of a minstrel show. Then we’ve all declared ourselves in…except Cliff.”

  All eyes turned to the bulky Californian.

  He sat scowling.

  Homer said, easily, “You’re not being urged, Cliff. You can turn back at this point.”

  Elmer Allen growled, “You came to Africa to help your race develop its continent. To conquer such problems as sufficient food, clothing and shelter for all. To bring education and decent medical care to a people who have had possibly the lowest living standards anywhere. Can you see any way of achieving this beyond the El Hassan movement?”

  Cliff looked at him, still scowling stubbornly. “That’s not why I came to Africa.”

  Their eyes were all on him, but they remained silent.

  He said, defensively, “I’m no do-gooder. I took a job with the Africa for Africans Association because it was the best job I could find.”

  Isobel broke the silence by saying softly, “I doubt it, Cliff.”

  The big man stood up from where he’d been seated on the bed. “O.K., O.K. Possibly there were oth
er angles. I wanted to travel. Wanted to see Africa. Besides, it was good background for some future job. I figured it wouldn’t hurt me any, in later years, applying for some future job. Maybe with some Negro concern in the States. I’d be able to say I’d put in a few years in Africa. Something like a Jew in New York who was a veteran of the Israel-Arab wars, before the debacle.”

  They still looked at him, none of them accusingly.

  He was irritated as he paced. “Don’t you see? Everybody doesn’t have this dream that Homer’s always talking about. That doesn’t mean I’m abnormal. I just don’t have the interest you do. All I want is a good job, some money in the bank, security back in the States. I’m not interested in dashing all over the globe, getting shot at, dying for some ideal.”

  Homer said gently, “It’s up to you, Cliff. Nobody’s twisting your arm.”

  There was sweat on the big man’s forehead. “All I came to Africa for was the job, the money I got out of it,” he repeated, insisting.

  * * * *

  To Homer Crawford suddenly came the realization that the other needed an out, an excuse. An explanation to himself for doing something he wanted to do but wouldn’t admit because it went against the opportunistic code he told himself he followed.

  Homer said, “All right. How much are you making as a field worker for the Africa for Africans Association?”

  Cliff looked at him, uncomprehending. “Eight thousand dollars, plus expenses.”

  “O.K., we’ll double that. Sixteen thousand to begin with, as El Hassan’s Minister of Treasury and whatever other duties we can think of to hang on you.”

  There was a long moment of silence, unbroken by any of the others. Finally in a gesture of desperation, Cliff Jackson waved at the money and checks sitting on the center table. “Sixteen thousand a year! The whole organization doesn’t have enough to pay me six months’ salary.”

  Homer said mildly, “That’s why your pay was doubled. You have to take risks to make money in this world, Cliff. If El Hassan does come to power, undoubtedly you’ll get other raises—along with greater responsibility.”