The Best Ye Breed na-3

by Mack Reynolds

  Homer Crawford was bitterly definite. “No, the traditional clothes of the North African have to go!”

  “Where’d you get your outfits?” Kenny said, unimpressed by this harangue.

  “We liberated them from the Arab Union soldiers,” Cliff told him. “Except for those kaffiyeh headdresses of theirs, they wear the same clothes the British did when they were fighting Rommel or, for that matter, the same as the Israelis wear.”

  “Well, you’re not going to outfit all of our armed forces with what you swiped from Colonel Ibrahim’s men.”

  Homer laughed. “We’ve placed a sizeable order in Dakar by radio, along with other immediate necessities.”

  He picked up a small brass bell from before him and rang it. A tribesman, garbed self-consciously in desert khakis, the same as those of Homer and Cliff, entered and came to attention, rather sloppily, but at least he made the attempt.

  Homer said, “Locate my viziers, James ben Peters and Doctor Smythe and the juju man, Dolo Anah, and request their presence.”

  The guard left.

  Both Bey and Kenny were ogling Homer. “What in the hell do you mean, you ordered them from Dakar?” Kenny demanded. “With what ? We haven’t enough money between us to play a slot machine.”

  Homer laughed and said, “Ask our Vizier of the Treasury,” and looked over at Cliff Jackson.

  Jackson was a big man, even larger than Homer Crawford. Blacker than most American Negroes, he bore himself with the lithe grace of a giant cat. Under Homer’s orders, the Californian, whenever occasion allowed, stripped himself to the waist and wandered around the encampment bare-chested. The Tuareg, beautiful physical specimens in their own right, admired masculine strength. Their eyes followed this companion of El Hassan everywhere.

  Cliff shook his head and said, “It’s the damnedest thing you ever saw. Since you two left, pounding after old Ibrahim, a dozen or more delegations have come from Common Europe, India, the United States of the Americas, and, for Christ’s sake, even South Africa. Half a dozen of them are trying to lay money onto us.”

  Bey and Kenny were bug-eyeing him. “Money? What in the hell for?” Bey said.

  “Well, for instance, the Swedes. They’re the only ones I’ve accepted anything from, so far. They laid ten million gold Kronen on us in advance payment for bauxite. They don’t have any bauxite of their own and they’ve got a king-size aluminum industry. They want in on the ground floor.”

  “What ground floor?” Kenny demanded, unbelievingly.

  “Well, it seems that Rio de Oro is ass-deep in bauxite, probably the biggest undeveloped fields in the world.”

  “Where in the devil’s Rio de Oro?” Bey said.

  Jimmy Peters had just entered. Originally from Trinidad, he was smaller than the American men and chunky of build. He wore old-fashioned spectacles and had an air of education and cultivation. Until he had joined El Hassan he had been with the African Department of the British Commonwealth. On his face could still be seen the lines brought on by the death of his brother, Jack, who had been as close to him as a twin. He was dressed in the new khaki uniform of the El Hassan forces.

  Jimmy Peters was known for his all but photographic memory and said now, “The former Spanish Sahara was divided into two provinces, Rio de Oro, about 70,000 square miles, and Sekia el-Hamra, some 32,000 square miles. Population has been estimated everywhere from 27,000 nomads to 45,000, though I’ll be damned if I know how anybody could ever have counted them. The country’s fantastically rich in phosphates and particularly bauxite, possibly the richest deposits known. Morocco to the north, Algeria to the east, and Mauretania to the south, have all claimed the country since the Spanish pulled out. They never have made a permanent settlement, the area’s up for grabs.”

  Isobel said, “What would we need with an encyclopedia, with Jimmy around?”

  Had Jimmy Peters been lighter in complexion, he would have flushed, but he grinned his shy grin at her. They were all in love with Isobel Cunningham.

  “But what of it?” Bey demanded. “We haven’t taken this Rio de Oro, at least as yet. So far as I know, we have no elements of our people in that area at all. Mauretania, yes, but not the former Spanish Sahara.”

  Cliff said with a short laugh and a shake of the head, “Evidently, the Swedes are willing to wait. They want that bauxite so bad they can taste it.”

  Homer said, “We’re being picky and choosey about whom we make deals with. We’re not out for the quick buck, we’re looking forward to the development of North Africa, for the benefit of the North Africans, not a bunch of multinational corporations.”

  Rex Donaldson and Doctor Warren Harding Smythe entered. The heavy-set, gray haired doctor, whose feisty energy belied his weight, was, as usual, sputtering. “What… What!” he demanded. “Why am I torn away from my patients? I have enough work on my hands for a dozen doctors, a double score of nurses and…”

  Bey said, “An Arab Union doctor should be here by tomorrow, Doctor Smythe, and two trained medicos with him.”

  And Isobel said, “And we have also picked up radio signals that several of the other American Medical Relief teams are coming in, to ask questions about their continued operations in the areas where El Hassan’s followers have taken over. Surely, they’ll pitch in locally, while the emergency continues.”

  Rex Donaldson, formerly of Nassau in the British Bahamas, formerly of the College of Anthropology, Oxford, formerly field man for the African Department of the British Commonwealth, was a small, bent man who usually operated in the Dogon country to the south, breaking down tribal barriers, prejudices against the new schools, and the ritual-taboos traditions of the area in general, was now on El Hassan’s immediate staff.

  He looked at Bey and Kenny and said, “Hello, chaps. How did you make out with our chum, the colonel?”

  “A bit bloodily,” Kenny said. “But he and the remains of his forces are coming in.”

  Homer said, “Will everybody be seated about this table here? The cabinet of El Hassan is in session, or should we call it a djemaa el kebar, in the Arabic fashion?”

  The others all moved up to places at the table, save the doctor, who stood glaring.

  “Mr. Crawford,” he sputtered. “By no stretch of imagination can I be considered one of your cabinet. I have informed you, long since, that I am opposed to what you are trying to do. You are attempting to force these people into the 21st Century, overnight. They are not capable of assimilating such changes. I fear for their mental health under the pressures of what has been called Future Shock. I and the other teams of the American Medical Relief are here to fight disease, to build clinics and hospitals, and, above all, medical schools—not to change institutions that are not ready for change.”

  Homer Crawford looked at him in exasperation and said, “Doctor, you contradict yourself. You wish to build medical schools, but who will be your students in them? Bedouins who cannot read or write? You speak of clinics. Very well, your American Medical Relief teams—and we admire their work—number a score or two in an area bigger than the United States. Your funds are far from unlimited and I understand that large elements in the American Congress, calling for financial retrenchments, wish to cut your appropriation down to a point that would make it meaningless. Then who will maintain these clinics and hospitals? Who will buy the medicines necessary to treat everything from endemic syphilis to ophthalmia, the eye disease almost universal among nomad children?”

  Doctor Smythe stared at him in frustration.

  Homer said, “I propose to name you Vizier of Health. Immediately, a university will be begun here in Tamanrasset. There will be a College of African Medicine. The instructors will be largely American blacks but we will also draw upon medically educated blacks from the former British and French colonies.”

  “And who will finance this mad dream?”

  Homer Crawford nodded in acceptance of the validity of that question and said, “We have recently received word that the Africa for Afr
icans Association, to which Miss Cunningham and Mr. Jackson belonged, has been swung over to our support in New York, through the efforts of our Foreign Minister, Jake Armstrong. A million dollars has already been raised. Jake is placing ads in American Negro magazines and other publications, for American black doctors to come to Africa both as teachers and practitioners in the field. No matter what your feelings, Doctor, and we respect them, the cause of better health in North Africa will be better served if you take your position not as a simple general practitioner, but as the head of all medicine in the rapidly expanding domains of El Hassan.”

  As he was speaking, a power reached out from the former sociologist, a psychic power, which he was unaware he wielded, but which was well known to all his immediate colleagues. His personality had suddenly dominated the room.

  Such must have been the power once held by Joshua of Nazareth, by Mohammed, and, for the sake of evil, Hitler. Such must have been the power of personality of the young Alexander when he stood, surrounded by Parmenion, Ptolemy, Antepater and the others of the Companions, with the thirty thousand spearmen of the phalanx arrayed behind them, on the west bank of the Hellespont and looked over at the far shore of Asia Minor with Persia and India beyond. What must he have said in Greek? The equivalent of, “All right, boys. Forward. We’ll give them a bit of a show.”

  Shaken by the raw psychic power, Doctor Warren Harding Smythe sank to the bench directly across from Homer Crawford. He got out, still attempting to maintain his rejection, “And from where would the resources come to sponsor all this?”

  Homer said, “Doctor, North Africa is possibly the richest area in the world so far as undeveloped raw materials are concerned, including oil. We intend to exploit them. And for the sake of North Africa, not the so-called developed nations.”

  The doctor, in a last resistance, said, trying to surface a sneer, “And how do I know that you will not use the proceeds of this abundance of raw materials for your own sakes?”

  The others about the table laughed bitterly, or smiled sour smiles.

  Homer said, “Doctor Smythe, the true revolutionist is an idealist, not an opportunist. Can you imagine a Jefferson, a Tom Paine, a James Madison, a Washington, being seduced by bribes or feathering their own nests through their eventual positions of power? Or Robespierre, Danton and Marat? They had greater things in mind than wealth. Or even Lenin and Trotsky. Those who came after, in Russia, yes. Those who hadn’t spent the long years in exile or prison as a result of their fight for the revolution which later came a cropper. But you couldn’t have bought Lenin with all the gold in Fort Knox.”

  Homer Crawford shook his head. “No, Doctor. Do not look at the immediate staff of El Hassan if you are seeking out opportunists.”

  It was getting a little heavy for Cliff Jackson. He said, “Hey, speak for yourself, Homer. If somebody offered me all the gold in Fort Knox…”

  “Shut up,” Kenny growled at him.

  Jimmy Peters pushed his glasses back on his nose and said, “That reminds me of something. Bribes. These American types, in particular, seem to be all intrigued with bribes. And the Italians too, for that matter. At any rate, I’ve been offered bribes three times.”

  Homer scowled at him. “For what, in particular?”

  The other shrugged in puzzlement. “I never quite figured it out. I came to the conclusion that they were just lining me up for future reference.”

  Kenny said, “Take ’em.”

  All eyes went to him.

  He said, as though nothing was more reasonable, “Take all bribes offered. Except for Homer, of course; he can’t do it. Otherwise we take ’em and throw them in the kitty. We can use the money.”

  Isobel was amused but she said, “What happens when the time comes that they expect you to deliver—whatever it might be they want?”

  “The hell with them,” Kenny said, reasonably still. “Let ’em go whistle. Nobody asked them to bribe El Hassan’s closest colleagues.”

  VII

  EL HASSAN

  Homer looked around at them and said, “Very well, here we are. El Hassan’s Cabinet.” He looked at Smythe. “You’re our Vizier of Health.”

  The doctor closed his eyes momentarily, but didn’t protest.

  Homer looked at Bey. “Field Marshal Bey-ag-Akhamouk, you’re our Vizier of Defense.”

  Bey nodded.

  Homer Crawford looked at Cliff Jackson. “And you’re already our Vizier of the Treasury, who promises not to sell out for anything short of the contents of Fort Knox. Which reminds me. Does it still have any contents?”

  Nobody bothered to answer.

  He said, “Old Jake Armstrong, over in New York, is our Foreign Minister, and Vizier of State.” He thought about it a moment and mused, “I wonder if they’ve let him in the front door of the Reunited Nations building as yet.”

  He looked at Jimmy Peters, who blinked back owlishly at him. “What are you?”

  Jimmy said, “Well, I used to be a teacher when I first got out of college.” He cleared his throat and added, “3rd Grade, grammar school.”

  Homer said, “Right. Vizier of Education. It’s going to be an important post under El Hassan.” He turned his eyes to Kenny Ballalou.

  Kenny said, pretending an air of wistfulness, “When I was a kid, I always wanted to be an FBI man.”

  Homer said, “Okay, you’re our Vizier of Security, combination of FBI, CIA and neighborhood cop on the beat.”

  It was Isobel’s turn. Homer looked at her thoughtfully. “Didn’t you used to work on a newspaper?”

  “I was editor of the college paper at Columbia.”

  “All right, you’re our Vizier of Information. Since Dave Moroka was killed in storming the fort, we need somebody to handle the press releases. And in view of the fact that you’re our best typist, you’re also my personal secretary.”

  “To hear is to obey, O El Hassan,” she said, wrinkling her nose at him.

  Homer’s eyes went to Rex Donaldson, who promptly looked defiance. “You chaps can go to hell,” he said. “It’s donkey’s years since I’ve sat behind a desk and I’m out of the habit. You make me a Minister Without Portfolio or something, in charge of coordination, or something.”

  Homer thought about it. He said, “I think you’re right. We’ll need a man continually in the field, going around to developing trouble spots. With a minister’s rank, you’d have clout. Besides, it wouldn’t do for we more necessary types, here at home base, to get shot in the ass.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, if such you are,” Isobel protested. “Your language. My blessed old mother once wanted me to take Holy Orders and become a nun.”

  Doctor Smythe could stand it no longer. He sputtered, “Do you mean to tell me that this is the manner in which governments are formed?”

  Most of the men around the table looked embarassed in varying degrees. Homer had just given the doctor a rather elevated pep talk a few minutes before.

  But Isobel said, “How did you think they were formed, Doctor? By elections? In the United States some ninety-five percent of the people who work in government are appointive, from the Supreme Court, and the President’s Cabinet and aides, right on down to the stenographer who types out your application for unemployment insurance.”

  Doctor Smythe, irritated, came to his feet and said, “I doubt if my presence is needed and I am desperately in demand at the improvised hospital. I shall consult with you further as to my duties… El Hassan.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Homer bowed his head respectfully.

  When the older man was gone, Homer Crawford looked around at them again. “Okay, first item on the agenda. What’s the name of our new country?”

  Everybody scowled.

  Kenny said, “Well, what about the North African Confederation, or, maybe, the Union of North Africa?”

  “That last one sounds too much like the Union of South Africa, heaven forbid,” Rex Donaldson said.

  Jimmy Peters said, “Ifriqiyah.”


  They all looked at him.

  He was embarassed, adjusted his glasses on his nose and said, “It’s the name the Romans used for North Africa. Later the Arabs borrowed it.”

  “Great,” Homersaid. “Let’s put it to the vote.”

  All were in favor.

  Homer Crawford turned to Isobel. “Put it on all of our stationery.”

  “What stationery?”

  “We’ve got to have stationery,” he said reasonably. “Isn’t there a printing shop in Tamanrasset, left over from when the French were here? The town’s big enough to support one.”

  Isobel sighed in resignation. “I’ll look into it.”

  Homer looked around and said, “What’s next?”

  Bey, the practical, when it came to matters military, said, “How many prisoners do we have on hand?”

  Homer said, “Counting the two hundred you’ve captured, about a thousand.”

  Bey stared at him. “A thousand! Out of the whole regiment and all the auxiliaries Ibriham brought down with him? That’s all that’s left?”

  Homer shook his head. “The rest have defected to El Hassan.”

  And Bey said indignantly, “Well, let ’em defect back again. Who in the hell wants a few thousand Arab Union legionaires behind their back? What would we do with them?”