Part 19 (2/2)

Cliff Jackson said, ”Bey and Kenny and Elmer should be coming soon. I heard a radio item this morning about a big pro-El Ha.s.san movement starting in the Sudan among the Teda.”

Moroka said, ”We need some sort of quick, spectacular victory. The bedouin can lose interest as quickly as they can get steamed up, and thus far we haven't given them anything but words--promises.”

”You're right,” Homer growled, ”but there's nothing we can do right now but mark time. Irritate the Arabs a bit. Keep them from spreading out.”

Isobel brought coffee, handing around the small Moroccan cups. She said, ”Well, one thing is certain. We get supplies soon or start eating jerked goat and camel milk curds.”

Moroka said in irritation, ”It's not funny.”

Isobel raised her eyebrows. ”I didn't mean it to be. Have you ever been on a camel curd diet?”

”Yes, I have,” Moroka said impatiently. He turned back to Homer Crawford. ”How about waylaying an armored car or so, just in the way of giving the men something exciting to do?”

Crawford ran a hand back through his short hair. ”Confound it, Dave, can you picture what a Recoilless-Brenn gun would do to a harka of our charging camelmen? We can't let these people be butchered.”

”I wasn't thinking of wild charges,” Moroka argued.

They had both turned away from Isobel, in their discussion. Now she looked at them, strangely. And especially at Homer Crawford. His brusqueness toward her didn't seem the old Homer.

There was a bustle from outside and a guardsman stuck his head in the tent entrance and reported in Tamaheq that a small camel patrol approached.

The four of them went out. Coming up were a dozen Tuareg and two motor vehicles.

Cliff said, ”Something new.”

Moroka said, ”We can use the transport.”

”Let's see who they are, before we start requisitioning their property,” Homer said dryly.

The two desert trucks had hardly come to a halt before the camouflaged tents and hover-lorries of El Ha.s.san's small encampment before a heavy-set, gray haired Negro, whose energy belied his weight, bounced down from the seat adjacent to the driver's in the lead vehicle and stomped belligerently to the group before the tent.

”What is the meaning of this?” he snapped.

Homer Crawford looked at him. ”I'm sure I don't know as yet, Dr.

Smythe. Neither you nor these followers of mine have informed me as to what has transpired. Won't you enter my quarters here and we'll go into it under more comfortable conditions?” He glanced upward at the midday Saharan sun.

The other seemed taken aback at Crawford calling him by name. He squinted at the man who was seemingly his captor.

”Crawford!” he snapped. ”Dr. Homer Crawford! See here, what is the meaning of this?”

Homer said, ”Dr. Warren Harding Smythe, may I present Isobel Cunningham, Clifford Jackson and David Moroka, of my staff?”

”Huuump. I met Miss Cunningham and, I believe, Mr. Jackson at that ridiculous meeting in Timbuktu, a short time ago.” The doctor peered over his gla.s.ses at Moroka.

The wiry South African nodded his head. ”A pleasure, Doctor.” He held open the tent entrance.

Smythe snorted again and stomped inside to escape the sun's glare.

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