“Hiding out is right,” Cliff snorted. “I have a sneaking suspicion that not only will they never find us, but we’ll never find them again.”
Homer laughed. “As a matter of fact, we’re not so far right now from Silet where there’s a certain amount of water—if you dig for it—and a certain amount of the yellowish grass and woody shrubs that the bedouin depend on. With luck, we’ll find the Amenokal of the Tuareg there.”
“Amenokal?”
“Paramount chief of the Ahaggar Tuaregs.”
* * * *
The dunes began to fall away and with the butt of his left hand Crawford struck the acceleration lever. He could make more time now when less of his attention was drawn to the ups and downs of erg travel.
Patches of thorny bush began to appear, and after a time a small herd of gazelle were flushed and high tailed their way over the horizon.
Isobel said, “Who is this Amenokal you mentioned?”
“These are the real Tuareg, the comparatively untouched. They’ve got three tribes, the Kel Rela, the Tégéhé Mellet and the Taitoq, each headed by a warrior clan which gives its name to the tribe as a whole. The chief of the Kel Rela clan is also chief of the Kel Rela tribe and automatically paramount chief, or Amenokal, of the whole confederation. His name is Melchizedek.”
“Do you think you can win him over?” Isobel said.
“He’s a smart old boy. I had some dealings with him over a year ago. Gave him a TV set in the way of a present, hoping he’d tune in on some of our Reunited Nations propaganda. He’s probably the most conservative of the Tuareg leaders.”
Her eyebrows went up. “And you expect to bring him around to the most liberal scheme to hit North Africa since Hannibal?”
He looked at her from the side of his eyes and grinned. “Remember Roosevelt, the American president?”
“Hardly.”
“Well, you’ve read about him. He came into office at a time when the country was going to economic pot by the minute. Some of the measures he and his so-called brain trust took were immediately hailed by his enemies as socialistic. In answer, Roosevelt told them that in times of social stress the true conservative is a liberal, since to preserve, you have to reform. If Roosevelt hadn’t done the things he did, back in the 1930s, you probably would have seen some real changes in the American socio-economic system. Roosevelt didn’t undermine the social system of the time, he preserved it.”
“Then, according to you, Roosevelt was a conservative,” she said mockingly.
Crawford laughed. “I’ll go even further,” he said. “When social changes are pending and for whatever reason are not brought about, then reaction is the inevitable alternative. At such a time then—when sweeping socio-economic change is called for—any reform measures proposed are concealed measures of reaction, since they tend to maintain the status quo.”
“Holy Mackerel,” Cliff protested. “Accept that and Roosevelt was not only not a liberal, but a reactionary. Stop tearing down my childhood heroes.”
Isobel said, “Let’s get back to this Amenokal guy. You think he’s smart enough to see his only chance is in going along with …”
Homer Crawford pointed ahead and a little to the right. “We’ll soon find out. This is a favorite encampment of his. With luck, he’ll be there. If we can win him over, we’ve come a long way.”
“And if we can’t?” Isobel said, her eyebrows raised again.
“Then it’s unfortunate that there are only three of us,” Homer said simply, without looking at her.
There were possibly no more than a hundred Tuareg in all in the nomad encampment of goat leather tents when the solar powered hovercraft drew up.
* * * *
When the air cushion vehicle stopped before the largest tent, Crawford said beneath his breath, “The Amenokal is here, all right. Cliff, watch your teguelmoust. If any of these people see more than your eyes, your standing has dropped to a contemptible zero.”
The husky Californian secured the lightweight cotton, combination veil and turban well up over his face. Earlier, Crawford had shown him how to wind the ten-foot long, indigo-blue cloth around the head and features.
Isobel, of course, was unveiled, Tuareg fashion, and wore baggy trousers of black cotton held in place with a braided leather cord by way of drawstring and a gandoura upper-garment consisting of a huge rectangle of cloth some seven to eight feet square and folded over on itself with the free corners sewed together so as to leave bottom and most of both sides open. A V-shaped opening for her head and neck was cut out of a fold at the top, and a large patch had been sewed inside to make a pocket beneath her left breast. She wasn’t exactly a Parisian fashion plate.
Even as they stepped down from the hovercraft, immediately after it had drifted to rest on the ground, an elderly man came from the tent entrance.
He looked at them for a moment, then rested his eyes exclusively on Homer Crawford.
“La Bas, El Hassan,” he said through the cloth that covered his mouth.
Homer Crawford was taken aback, but covered the fact. “There is no evil,” he repeated the traditional greeting. “But why do you name me El Hassan?”
A dozen veiled desert men, all with the Tuareg sword, several with modern rifles, had formed behind the Tuareg chief.
Melchizedek made a movement of hand to mouth, in a universal gesture of amusement. “Ah, El Hassan,” he said, “you forget you left me the magical instrument of the Roumi.”
Crawford was mystified, but he stood in silence. What the Tuareg paramount chief said now made considerable difference. As he recalled his former encounter with the Ahaggar leader, the other had been neither friendly nor antagonistic to the Reunited Nations team Crawford had headed in their role as itinerant desert smiths.
The Amenokal said, “Enter then my tent, El Hassan, and meet my chieftains. We would confer with you.”
The first obstacle was cleared. Subduing a sigh of relief, Homer Crawford turned to Cliff. “This, O Amenokal of all the Ahaggar, is Clif ben Jackson, my Vizier of Finance.”
The Amenokal bowed his head slightly, said, “La Bas.”
Cliff could go that far in the Tuareg tongue. He said, “La Bas.”
The Amenokal said, looking at Isobel, “I hear that in the lands of the Roumi women are permitted in the higher councils.”
Homer said steadily, “This I have also been amazed to hear. However, it is fitting that my followers remain here while El Hassan discusses matters of the highest importance with the Amenokal and his chieftains. This is the Sitt Izubahil, high in the councils of her people due to the great knowledge she has gained by attending the new schools which dispense rare wisdom, as all men know.”
The Amenokal courteously said, “La Bas,” but Isobel held her peace in decency amongst men of chieftain rank.
When Homer and the Tuaregs had disappeared into the tent, she said to Cliff, “Stick by the car, I’m going to circulate among the women. Women are women everywhere. I’ll pick up the gossip, possibly get something Homer will miss in there.”
A group of Tuareg women and children, the latter stark naked, had gathered to gape at the strangers. Isobel moved toward them, began immediately breaking the ice.
Under his breath, Cliff muttered, “What a gal. Give her a few hours and she’ll form a Lady’s Aid branch, or a bridge club, and where else is El Hassan going to pick up so much inside information?”
* * * *
The tent, which was of the highly considered mouflon skins, was mounted on a wooden frame which consisted of two uprights with a horizontal member laid across their tops. The tent covering was stretched over this framework with its back and sides pegged down and the front, which faced south, was left open. It was ten feet deep, fifteen feet wide and five feet high in the middle.
The men entered and filed to the right of the structure where sheepskins and rugs provided seating. The women and children, who abided ordinarily to the left side, had vanished for this gathering of the grea
t.
They sat for a time and sipped at green tea, syrup sweet with mint and sugar, the tiny cups held under the teguelmoust so as not to obscenely reveal the mouth of the drinker.
Finally, Homer Crawford said, “You spoke of the magical instrument of the Roumi which I gave you as gift, O Amenokal, and named me El Hassan.”
Several of the Tuareg chuckled beneath their veils but Crawford could read neither warmth nor antagonism in their amusement.
The elderly Melchizedek nodded. “At first we were bewildered, O El Hassan, but then my sister’s son, Guémama, fated perhaps one day to become chief of the Kel Rela and Amenokal of all the Ahaggar, recalled the tales told by the storytellers at the fire in the long evenings.”
Crawford looked at him politely.
Melchizedek’s laugh was gentle. “But each man has heard, in his time, O El Hassan, of the ancient Calif Haroun El Raschid of Baghdad.”
Crawford’s mind went into high gear, as the story began to come back to him. From second into high gear, and he could have blessed these bedouin for handing him a piece of publicity gobblydygook worthy of Fifth Avenue’s top agency.
He held up a hand as though in amusement at being discovered. “Wallahi, O Amenokal, you have discovered my secret. For many months I have crossed the deserts disguised as a common Enaden smith to seek out all the people and to learn their wishes and their needs.”
“Even as Haroun el Raschid in the far past,” one of the subchiefs muttered in satisfaction, “used to disguise himself as a lowborn dragoman and wander the streets of Baghdad.”
“But how did you recognize me?” Homer said.
The Amenokal said in reproof, “But verily, your name is on all lips. The Roumi have branded you common criminal. You are to be seized on sight and great reward will be given he who delivers you to the authorities.” He spoke without inflection, and Crawford could read neither support nor animosity—nor greed for the reward offered by El Hassan’s enemies. He gathered the impression that the Tuareg chief was playing his cards close to his chest.
“And what else do they say?”
The elderly Melchizedek went on slowly, “They say that El Hassan is in truth a renegade citizen of a far away Roumi land and that he attempts to build a great confederation in North Africa for his own gain.”
One of the others chuckled and said, “The Roumi on the magical instrument are indeed great liars as all can see.”
Homer looked at him questioningly.
The other said, laughing, “Who has ever heard of a black Roumi? And you, O El Hassan, are as black as a Bela.”
The Amenokal finished off the mystery of Crawford’s recognition. “Know, El Hassan, that whilst you were here before, one of the slaves that served you for pay shamelessly looked upon your face in the privacy of your tent. It was this slave who recognized your face when the Roumi presented it on the magic instrument, calling upon all men to see you and to brand you enemy.”
So that was it. The Reunited Nations, and probably all the rest, had used their radio and TV stations to broadcast a warning and offer a reward for Homer and his followers. Old Sven was losing no time. This wasn’t so good. A Tuareg owes allegiance to no one beyond clan, tribe and confederation. All others are outside the pale and any advantage, monetary or otherwise, to be gained by exploiting a stranger is well within desert mores.
He might as well bring it to the point. Crawford said evenly, “And I have entered your camp alone except for two followers. Your people are many. So why, O Amenokal, have you not seized me for the reward the Roumi offer?”
* * * *
There was a moment of silence and Homer Crawford sensed that the sub-chieftains had leaned forward in anticipation, waiting for their leader’s words. Possibly they, too, could not understand.
The Tuareg leader finished his tea.
“Because, El Hassan, we yet have not heard the message which the Roumi are so anxious that you not be allowed to bring the men of the desert. The Roumi are great liars, and great thieves, as each man knows. In the memory of those still living, they have stolen of the bedouin and robbed him of land and wealth. So now we would hear of what you say, before we decide.”
“Spoken like a true Amenokal, a veritable Suliman ben Davud,” Homer said with a heartiness he could only partly feel. At least they were open to persuasion.
For a long moment he stared down at the rug upon which they sat, as though deep in contemplation.
“These words I speak will be truly difficult to hear and accept, O men of the veil,” he said at last. “For I speak of great change, and no man loves change in the way of his life.”
“Speak, El Hassan,” Melchizedek said flatly. “Great change is everywhere upon us, as each man knows, and none can tell how to maintain the ways of our fathers.”
“We can fight,” one of the younger men growled.
The Amenokal turned to him and grunted scorn. “And would you fight against the weapons of the djinn and afrit, O Guémama? Know that in my youth I was distant witness to the explosion of a great weapon which the accursed Franzawi discharged south of Reggan. Know, that this single explosion, my sister’s son, could with ease have destroyed the total of all the tribesmen of the Ahaggar, had they been gathered.”
“And the Roumi have many such weapons,” Crawford added gently.
The eyes of the tribal headmen came back to him.
“As each man knows,” Crawford continued, “change is upon the world. No matter how strongly one wills to continue the traditions of his fathers, change is upon us all. And he who would press against the sand storm, rather than drifting with it, lasts not long.”
One of the subchiefs growled, “We Tuareg love not change, El Hassan.”
Crawford turned to him. “That is why I and my viziers have spent long hours in ekhwan, in great council, devoted to the problems of the Tuareg and how they can best fit into the new Africa that everywhere awakes.”
They stirred in interest now. The Tuareg, once the Scourge of the Sahara, the Sons of Shaitan and the Forgotten of Allah, to the Arab, Teda, Moroccan and other fellow inhabitants of North Africa, were of recent decades developing a tribal complex. Robbed of their nomadic-bandit way of life by first the French Camel Corps and later by the efforts of the Reunited Nations, they were rapidly descending into a condition of poverty and defensive bewilderment. Not only were large numbers of former bedouin drifting to the area’s sedentary centers, an act beyond contempt within the memory of the elders, but the best elements of the clans were often deserting Tuareg country completely and defecting to the new industrial centers, the dam projects, the afforestation projects, the new oases irrigated with the solar-powered pumps.
“Speak, El Hassan,” the Amenokal ordered. And unconsciously, he, too, leaned forward, as did his subchiefs. The Ahaggar Tuareg were reaching for straws, unconsciously seeking shoulders upon which to lay their unsolvable problems.
“Let me, O chiefs of the Tuareg, tell of a once strong tribe of warriors and nomads who lived in the far country in which I was born,” Crawford said. The desert man loves a story, a parable, a tale of the strong men of yesteryear.
Melchizedek clapped his hands in summons and when a slave appeared, called for narghileh water pipes. When all had been supplied, they relaxed, bits in mouths and looked again at Homer Crawford.
“They were called,” he intoned, “the Cheyenne. The Northern Cheyenne, for they had a sister tribe to the South. And on all the plains of this great land, a land, verily, as large as all that over which the Tuareg confederations now roam, they were the greatest huntsmen, the greatest warriors. All feared them. They were the lords of all.”
“Ai,” breathed one of the older men. “As were the Tuareg before the coming of the cursed Franzawi and the other Nazrani.”
“But in time,” Crawford pursued, “came the new ways to the plains, and these men who lived largely by the chase began to see the lands fenced in for farmers, began to see large cities erected on what were once tr
ibal areas, and to see the iron railroads of the new ways begin to spread out over the whole of the territory which once was roamed only by the Cheyennes and such nomadic tribes.”
“Ai,” a muffled mouth ejected.
Homer Crawford looked at the younger Targui, Guémama, the Amenokal’s nephew. “And so,” he said, “they fought.”
“Wallahi!” Guémama breathed.
Homer Crawford looked about the circle. “Never has tribe fought as did the Cheyenne. Never has the world seen such warriors, with the exception, of course, of the Ahaggar Tuareg. Never were such raids, never such bravery, never such heroic deeds as were performed by the warriors of the Cheyennes and their women, and their old people and their children. Over and over they defeated the cavalry and the infantry of the newcomers who would change the old ways and bring the new to the lands of the Cheyennes.”
The bedouin were staring in fascination, their water pipes forgotten.
“And then…?” the Amenokal demanded.
“The new ways taught the enemy how to make guns, and artillery, and finally Gatling guns, which today we call machine guns. And once a brave warrior might prevail against a common man armed with the weapons of the new ways, and even twice he might. But the numbers of the followers of the new ways are as the sands of the Great Erg and in time bravery means nothing.”
“It is even so,” someone growled. “They are as the sands of the erg, and they have the weapons of the djinn, as each man knows.”
“And what happened in the end, O El Hassan?”
His eyes swept them all. “They perished,” Homer said. “Today in all the land where once the Cheyenne pursued the game there is but a handful of the tribe alive. And they have become nothing people, no longer warriors, no longer nomads, and they are scorned by all for they are poor, poor, poor. Poor in mind and spirits, and in property and they have not been able to adjust to the ways of the new world.”
Air went out of the lungs of the assembled Tuareg.
The Amenokal looked at him. “This is verily the truth, El Hassan?”
“My head upon it,” Crawford said.
The Mack Reynolds Megapack Page 78
