Part 27 (1/2)

”Technicians, teachers, arms,” Bey continued the list.

Kenny Ballalou looked at him and snorted. ”Arms! If there's anything this part of the world doesn't need it's more arms. In fact, that goes for the rest of the world, too. In the old days when the great nations were first beginning to attempt to line up the neutrals they sent aid to such countries by the billions--and most of it in arms. How ridiculous can you get? Putting arms in the hands of most of the governments of that time was like handing a loaded pistol to an idiot.”

Bey hung his head in mock humility. ”I bow before your wisdom,” he said. He left the room to get Ostrander.

The C.I.A. man had lost a fraction of his belligerence, but none of his arrogance and natty appearance. Homer wondered vaguely how the other managed to remain so spruce in the inadequate desert camp.

Jack Peters said, ”What did you wish to ask El Ha.s.san? I will translate.”

”Never mind that, Jack,” Homer said. ”We'll get tougher about using our official language when we've gone a little further in building our new government.” He said to Ostrander, ”What can I do for you?

Obviously, my time, is limited.”

Fredric Ostrander said, ”I've been gathering material for reports to my superiors. I've been doing a good deal of questioning, and, frankly, even prying around.”

Cliff grunted.

Ostrander went on. ”I've also read the various press releases, manifestoes and so forth that your a.s.sistants have been compiling.”

”We know,” Homer said. ”We haven't put any obstacles in your way. We haven't any particular secrets, Mr. Ostrander.”

”You disguise the fact that you are an American,” the C.I.A. man said accusingly.

Homer said slowly, ”Only because El Ha.s.san _is not_ an American, Mr.

Ostrander. He is an African with African solutions to African problems. That is what he must be if he is to accomplish his task.”

Ostrander seemed to switch subjects. ”See here, Crawford, the State Department is not completely opposed to the goal of uniting North Africa. It would solve many problems, both African and international.”

Kenny Ballalou laughed softly. ”You mean, you're on our side?”

Ostrander turned to him, for once not incensed at being needled.

”Possibly more than you'd think,” he rapped. He turned back again to Homer Crawford. ”The question becomes, why do you think that _you_ are the man for the job? Who gave _you_ the go-ahead?”

Bey, who had settled down into a folding camp chair, now came to his feet, his tired face angry.

But Homer waved him to silence. ”Hold it,” he said. Then to Ostrander.

”It doesn't work that way. It's not something you decide to do because you're thirsty for power, or greedy for money. You're pushed into it.

Do you think Was.h.i.+ngton, a retired Virginian planter wrapped up in his estate and his family, wanted to spend years leading the revolutionary armies through the wilderness that was America in those days? He was thrust into the job, there was no one else more competent to take it.

Men make the times, Ostrander, but the times also make the men. Look at Lenin and Trotsky. Three months before the October Revolution, Lenin wrote that he never expected to see in his lifetime the Bolsheviks come to power. Within those months he was at the head of government and Trotsky, a former bookworm who had never fired a gun in his life, was head of the Red Army and being proclaimed a military genius.”

Ostrander was scowling at him, but his face was thoughtful.

Homer said quietly, ”It's not always an easy thing, to have power thrust into your hands. Not always a desirable thing.” His voice went quieter still. ”Only a short time ago it led me to the necessity of ...

killing ... my best friend.”

”And mine,” Isobel said softly, almost under her breath.