Blackman' Burden na-1

by Mack Reynolds

  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 cooperate 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 teenagers.

  “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 faces.

  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’re 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 hotheads,” 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 hoedown, get the crowd over and then introduce me.”

  Abe left and Crawford said to Is
obel, “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 ring-leaders 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.

  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.”

  “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 Resistance 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.”

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p; 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.