Part 29 (2/2)

”By then, I a.s.sume, the battle will be over and Tamanra.s.set in El Ha.s.san's hands. The Arab Union will then think twice before committing their paratroopers, particularly with captured armor in El Ha.s.san's hands.”

”And your name will be mud,” Kenny blurted.

Ostrander looked at Homer Crawford. ”Gentlemen, you must remember that I, too, am an African. I had thought that perhaps there would be a position for me on El Ha.s.san's staff.”

Crawford reached for the Tommy-Noiseless that leaned up against the improvised desk at which he worked. He said, ”Let's get moving, Bey.

We haven't much time. We're going to have to be able to announce its capture _from_ Tamanra.s.set in a couple of hours.”

”Not you,” Bey said, grabbing up his own weapon and motioning with his head for Kenny and Cliff to come along. ”You're El Ha.s.san and can't be risked.”

”I'm coming,” Homer said flatly. ”It's about time El Ha.s.san began taking some of the same risks his followers seem to be willing to face. Besides, the men will fight better with me out in front. Got a gun, Fred?”

Ostrander said, ”No. Where am I issued one?”

”I'll show you,” Homer said, stuffing extra clips in his bush jacket pockets. ”Come on, Dave.”

The whole group began heading for the open air, Bey already yelling orders.

Fredric Ostrander looked at Dave Moroka. ”Strange bedfellows,” he said.

Moroka grinned wryly. ”My long view hasn't changed,” he said. ”It's just that this African matter takes precedence right now.”

”Nor mine, of course,” Ostrander said. He cleared his throat.

”However, I hope you last out the night. El Ha.s.san needs strong men.”

”Same to you,” Moroka said gruffly. ”Let's get going, or the fight will be over while we hand each other flowers.”

_Epilogue_

El Ha.s.san stood in the smoking, war-wasted ruin of Fort Laperine, his mind empty. The body of Jack Peters was ten feet to his left, burned beyond recognition and crumpled over a flame thrower which he'd eliminated in the last few moments of the fighting. Had he let his eyes go out the gun port before which he stood, it might have been possible for El Ha.s.san to have picked out the bodies of David Moroka and Fredric Ostrander amidst those of the several hundred Haratin serfs who had swarmed out of the souk area at the crucial moment and stormed the half manned fort--unarmed save for knives and farm implements.

To his right, Dr. Warren Harding Smythe supervised two Tuareg who were carrying off the broken body of Kenny Ballalou; there was still faint life in it.

The doctor looked at him. ”You are satisfied, I a.s.sume?”

El Ha.s.san failed to hear him.

Smythe turned and stomped off, following his impressed nurses.

In the distance, Bey-ag-Akhamouk called hoa.r.s.e orders from an over-strained throat, placing guns for a counterattack that would never come. The Arab Legion was broken and Colonel Ibrahim a prisoner.

Large numbers of the survivors were defecting to the banner of El Ha.s.san.

He threw his empty Tommy-Noiseless to the side. All he wanted now was sleep, the surcease of a few hours of oblivion.

Isobel, her face wan from the horror of the agony of the combat whose result was everywhere visible, was picking her way through the wreckage with Cliff Jackson.

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