Part 4 (1/2)

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

_d.a.m.n_, 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 pa.s.sed the native stands and tiny shops, and the even smaller venders and hucksters with their products of the ma.s.s 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 Ha.s.san had no time, at present, for those things love implied.

She said, ”Here,” and led the way down a brick paved pa.s.sage 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 Ha.s.san!” 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 Ha.s.san 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 d.a.m.n or h.e.l.l. 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 Ha.s.san project sound to Zetterberg and the Reunited Nations?”

Cliff Jackson laughed bitterly. ”Why do you think we're in hiding?”