Part 27 (2/2)

Dave Moroka said, ”Abe Baker,” before he caught himself.

Kenny Ballalou looked at him strangely. ”Did you know Abe?”

The South African recovered. ”I've heard several of you mention him from time to time. He was a commie, wasn't he?”

”Yes,” Homer said without inflection. ”And a man. He saved my life on more than one occasion. As long as we worked together with only Africa in mind, there was no conflict. But Abe had a further, and, to him, greater alliance.”

He turned his attention back to the C.I.A. man. ”A man does what he must do,” he finished simply. ”I did not ask to become El Ha.s.san.”

Ostrander said, ”Your motivation is possibly beside the point. The thing is that the battle for men's minds continues and your program, eventually, must align with the West.”

”And get clobbered in the stampeding around between the two great powers,” Kenny said dryly.

”You've got to take your stand,” Ostrander said. ”I'd rather die under the neutron bomb, than spend the rest of my life on my knees under a Soviet Complex government. Wouldn't you?” His eyes went from one of them to the other, defiantly.

Homer said slowly. ”No, even though that was the only alternative, which is unlikely. Not if it meant finis.h.i.+ng off the whole human race at the same time.” He shook his head. ”If it were only me, it might be different. But if it was a matter of nuclear war the whole race might well end. Given such circ.u.mstances, I'd be proud to remain on my knees the rest of my life. You see, Ostrander, you make the mistake of thinking the Soviet socio-economic system is a permanent thing. It isn't. It's changing daily, even as our own socio-economic system is.

Even if the Soviet Complex were to dominate the whole world, it would be but a temporary phase in man's history. Their regime, in its time, right or wrong, will go under in man's march to whatever his destiny might be. Some day it will be only a memory, and so will the socio-economic systems of the West. No inst.i.tutions are less permanent than politico-economic ones.”

”I don't agree with you,” Ostrander snapped.

”Obviously,” Homer shrugged. ”However, this is another problem. El Ha.s.san deals with North Africa. The other problems you bring up we admit, but at this stage are not dealing with them. Our dream is in Africa. Perhaps the Africans will be forced to taking other stands, to dreaming new dreams, twenty or thirty years from now. When that time comes, I a.s.sume the new problems will be faced. By that time there will probably be no need for El Ha.s.san.”

Ostrander looked at him and bit his lip in thought.

It came to him now that he had never won in his contests with Homer Crawford, and that he would probably never win. No matter how strong his convictions, in the presence of the other man, something went out of him. There was strength in Crawford that must be experienced to be understood. When he talked, he held you, and your own opinions became nothing--stupidities on your lips. He had a dream, and in conversation with him, all other things dropped away and nothing was of importance but that dream. A dream? Possibly _disease_ was the better word. And so highly contagious.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

While they talked, an aide had entered and handed a report to Bey-ag-Akhamouk. He read it and closed his eyes in weariness.

”What's up, Bey,” Homer asked.

”I don't know. Colonel Ibrahim has stepped up his attacks in all directions. At least two thirds of his force is on the offensive. It doesn't make much sense. But it must make sense to _him_, or he wouldn't be doing it.”

Ostrander said, and to everyone's surprise there seemed to be an element of worry in his voice too, ”I know Colonel Midan Ibrahim, met him in Cairo and in Baghdad on various occasions. He's considered one of the best men in the Arab Legion. He doesn't make military blunders.”

Bey said, ”Come on, Kenny. Let's round up Guemama and take a look at the front.” He led the way from the tent.

There was a guard posted before the tent which doubled as press and communications center, and the private quarters of David Moroka.

The figure that approached timidly was garbed in the traditional clothing of the young women of the Tegehe Mellet tribe of the Tuareg and bore an _imzad_ in her left hand, while her right held a corner of her gandoura over her face.

The guard, of the Kel Rela tribe, eyed the one-stringed violin with its string of hair and sounding box made of half a gourd covered with a thin membrane of skin, and grinned. A Tuareg maid was accustomed to sing and to make the high whining tones of desert music on the _imzad_ before submitting to her lover's embrace. _Wallahi!_ but these women of the Tegehe Mellet were shameless.

”Where do you go?” he said gruffly. ”El Ha.s.san's vizier has ordered that he is occupied and none should approach.”

”He awaits me,” she wavered. There was _kohl_ about her eyes, and indigo at the corners of her mouth. ”We met at the _tendi_ last night and he bid me come to his tent. It is for me he waits.”

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