Part 25 (1/2)

Ostrander knew they were kidding him, but at the same time the stand being taken was actuality. He glared at the Americans present whom he knew, Bey, Isobel, Cliff and Kenny. He snapped, ”Very well, but I repeat what I told you when last we met. The State Department of the United States of the Americas will not stand idly by and see this area taken over by elements dominated by red subversives.”

”Holy Mackerel,” Cliff growled, ”are you still tooting that horn?”

Dave Moroka said sarcastically, ”It's an old wheeze. The definition of a red subversive is anybody who doesn't see eye to eye with the United States. They've been pulling the gag for decades. Remember Guatemala and Cuba? Do anything that interferes with American business abroad and the cry goes up, _he's an enemy of the free world!_”

Ostrander spun on him, his eyes narrowing.

Dave laughed. ”The definition of members of the free world, of course, being anybody who follows the American line. Anybody is free, Spanish and Portuguese dictators, absolute monarchs in Arabia, Chinese warlords, if they're on the American side.”

Ostrander snapped, ”I don't believe we've met.”

Moroka made a sweeping bow. ”I'm afraid we don't move in the same circles. I've spent possibly a third of my life in prison--”

”Undoubtedly,” Ostrander snorted.

”... Put there by people such as yourself--in various countries--because I was fighting for my own version of freedom.”

”Communism, undoubtedly!”

Moroka said softly, ”I'm a South African, sir. Both my parents were killed in the 1960 riots. It seems that they had dark skins--even as you and I--and weren't able to see why that should keep them from _freedom_.”

Fredric Ostrander spun back to Homer Crawford. ”I'm not here to quibble with self-confessed malcontents. I've been sent to represent the State Department, to report to them, and, above all, to do what I can to prevent your activities from redounding to the further advantage of the Soviet Complex. I a.s.sume you can a.s.sign me quarters.”

Straight-faced, Jack Peters translated this into Esperanto, and, straight-faced, Homer answered in the same language.

Jack turned back to the impatient C.I.A. man. ”El Ha.s.san welcomes the representative of the United States of the Americas and hopes this will be the first step toward diplomatic recognition between North Africa and your great country. He has instructed me to find you quarters, which, possibly you may have to share with delegations from Common Europe or”--Peters cleared his throat--”the Soviet Complex. He further suggests that it might be well, if you maintain communications with your superiors, to have sent to you books on Esperanto, the official language of North Africa.”

Dave Moroka put in, ”By the way, we'll have to go through your things.

We can't allow any radio communication from El Ha.s.san's camp, except through official El Ha.s.san channels--for obvious military reasons.”

Ostrander snorted, stared indignantly at Homer again, spun on his heel and stalked from the tent. Jack Peters followed him but not before tipping an uncharacteristic wink at Homer.

When they were gone, Homer sighed and looked at Dave Moroka. ”That reminds me, how are our other delegations coming?”

The South African grinned ruefully. ”They're playing it cool. Waiting to see what way to jump. Give El Ha.s.san some real success, and they'll probably jump at the chance to be first to recognize him. Especially these Soviet Complex opportunists. They'd just love to suck you into their camp.”

Isobel looked at him. ”After that tearing down you gave poor Ostrander about the United States, now you rip into the Soviet Complex. Just where do you stand, Dave?”

Dave shrugged her question off, as though there were more important things. ”I'm an El Ha.s.san man,” he said. ”Let those two overgrown powers handle their own troubles.”

Jimmy Peters spoke up for the first time since Ostrander entered the tent. ”You know,” he said, seriously, ”I'm beginning to wonder if the world can afford nationalistic patriotism. Haven't we gone too far along the road to think of ourselves any longer as Americans, or Russians, or French, or West Indians, or whatever? Hasn't the human race grown up beyond that point?”

Kenny said mockingly, ”What! Aren't you proud of being a West Indian, and a loyal subject of Her Majesty?”

Peters ignored his tone. ”Why should I be proud of my country? It was an accident of birth with which I had nothing to do, that made me a West Indian, rather than a Canadian, a Chinese, a Norwegian, or whatever. Intelligently, I should be proud only of things that I, myself, have accomplished.”

Bey said, ”If we can stop waxing philosophic for a while and get back to how most efficiently to clobber these Arabs--”

The Hindu entered Kirill Menzhinsky's small office behind the Indian souvenir shop in the Tangier Zocco Chico and said, ”The operative Anton is on the receiver.”