by James A. Cox
shook hands, grinning. "You're a long way from home."
"Farther than that," the one labeled Jack said without a smilechanging the seriousness of his face. "We're originally fromTrinidad."
Donaldson said, "And this is David Moroka, late of South Africa."
The wiry South African said easily, "Not so very late. In fact, Ihaven't seen Jo-burg since I was a boy."
He was shaking hands with Isobel now. "Jo-burg?" she said.
"Johannesburg," he translated. "I got out by the skin of my teethduring the troubles in the 1950s."
"You sound like an American," Cliff said when it was his turn toshake.
"Educated in the States," Moroka said. "Best thing that ever happenedto me was to be kicked out of the land of my birth."
Homer made a sweeping gesture at the floor and the few articles offurniture the tent contained that could be improvised as chairs. "I'msurprised you're up here instead of in your own neck of the woods," hesaid to the South African.
Moroka shrugged. "I was considering heading south when I ran intoJimmy and Jack, here. They'd already got the word on the El Hassanmovement from Rex. Their arguments made sense to me."
Eyes went to the brothers from Trinidad and Jack Peters took over theposition of spokesman. He said, seriously, as though trying toconvince the others, "North Africa is the starting point, thebeginning. Given El Hassan's success in uniting North Africa, thecentral areas and later even the south will fall into line. Perhapsone day there will be a union of _all_ Africa."
"Or at least a strong confederation," Jimmy Peters added.
Homer nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps. But we can't look that farforward now." He looked from one of the newcomers to the other. "Idon't know to what extent you fellows understand what the rest of ushave set out to accomplish but I suppose if you've been with Rex forthe past week, you have a fairly clear idea."
"I believe so," Jack nodded, straight-faced.
Homer Crawford said slowly, "I don't want to give you the wrong idea.If you join up, you'll find it's no parade. Our chances were slim tobegin, and we've had some setbacks. As you've probably heard, the ArabUnion has stolen a march on us. And from what we can get on the radio,we have thus far to pick up a single adherent among the world powers."
"_Powers?_" Cliff snorted. "We haven't got a nation the size of Monacoon our side."
Moroka shot a quick glance at the big Californian.
Isobel caught it and laughed. "Cliff's a perpetual sourpuss," shesaid. "However, he's been in since the first."
The South African looked at her in turn. "We were hardly prepared tofind a beautiful American girl in the Great Erg," he said.
Something about his voice caused her to flush. "We've all caughtHomer's dream," she said, almost defensively.
* * * * *
David Moroka flung to his feet, viper fast, and dashed toward HomerCrawford, his hands extended.
Automatically, Cliff Jackson stuck forward a foot in an attempt totrip him--and missed.
The South African, moving with blurring speed, grasped theunsuspecting Crawford by the right hand and arm, swung with fantasticspeed and sent the American sprawling to the far side of the tent.
Homer Crawford, old in rough and tumble, was already rolling out.Before the inertia of his fall had given way, his right hand, only asplit second before in the grip of the other, was fumbling for the 9mm Noiseless holstered at his belt.
Rex Donaldson, a small handgun magically in his hand, was standing,half crouched on his thin, bent legs. The two brothers from Trinidadhadn't moved, their eyes bugging.
Moroka was spinning with the momentum of the sudden attack he'd madeon his new chief. Now there was a gun in his own hand and he wasdarting for the tent opening.
Cliff yelled indignantly, "Stop him!"
Isobel, on her feet by now, both hands to her mouth, was staring atthe goatskin tent covering, against which, a moment earlier, Crawfordhad been gently leaning his back as he talked.
There was a vicious slash in the leather and even as she pointed, therazor-sharp arm dagger's blade disappeared. There was the sound ofrunning feet outside the tent.
Homer Crawford had assimilated the situation before the rest. He, too,was darting for the tent entrance, only feet behind Moroka.
Donaldson followed, muttering bitterly under his breath, his facetwisted more as though in distaste than in fighting anger.
Cliff, too, finally saw light and dashed after the others, leavingonly Isobel and the Peters brothers. They heard the muffled coughingof a silenced gun, twice, thrice and then half a dozen times, blurtingtogether in automatic fire.
Homer Crawford shuffled through the sand on an awkward run, roundingthe tent, weapon in hand.
There was a native on the ground making final spasmatic muscularmovements in his death throes, and not more than three feet from him,coolly, David Moroka sat, bracing his elbows on his knees and aiming,two-handed, as his gun emptied itself.
Crawford brought his own gun up, seeking the target, and clipping atthe same time, "We want him alive--"
It was too late. Two hundred feet beyond, a running tribesman, longarm dagger still in hand, stumbled, ran another three or four feetwith hesitant steps, and then collapsed.
Moroka said, "Too late, Crawford. He would have got away." The SouthAfrican started to his feet, brushing sand from his khaki bushshorts.
The others were beginning to come up and from the Tuareg encampment arush of Guemama's men started in their direction.
Crawford said unhappily, looking down at the dead native at theirfeet, "I hate to see unnecessary killing."
Moroka looked at him questioningly. "Unnecessary? Another split secondand his knife would have been in your gizzard. What do you want togive him, another chance?"
Crawford said uncomfortably, "Thanks, Dave, anyway. That was quickthinking."
"Thank God," Donaldson said, coming up, his wrinkled face scowlingunhappily, first at the dead man at their feet, and then at the onealmost a hundred yards away. "Are these local men? Where were yourbodyguards?"
Cliff Jackson skidded to a halt, after rounding the tent. He'd heardonly the last words. "What bodyguards?" he said.
Moroka looked at Crawford accusingly. "El Hassan," he said. "Leader ofall North Africa. And you haven't even got around to bodyguards? Doyou fellows think you're playing children's games? Gentlemen, I assureyou, the chips are down."
VI
El Hassan's Tuaregs were on the move. After half a century and more ofrelative peace the Apaches of the Sahara, the Sons of Shaitan and theForgotten of Allah were again disappearing into the ergs to emergehere, there, and ghostlike to disappear again. They faded in and fadedaway again, and even in their absence dominated all.
El Hassan was on the move, as all men by now knew, and he, who was notfor the amalgamation of all North Africa, was judged against him. Andwho, in the Sahara, could afford to be against El Hassan when hisTuaregs were everywhere?
Refugees poured into Tamanrasset for the security of Arab Legion arms,or into In Salah and Reggan to the north, or Agades and Zinder to thesouth. Refugees who had already taken their stand with the Arab Unionand Pan-Islam. Refugees who were men of property and would know moreof this El Hassan before risking their wealth. Refugees who took nostand, but dreaded those who drank the milk of war, no matter thecause for which they fought. Refugees who fled simply because othersfled, for terror is a most contagious disease.
Colonel Midan Ibrahim of the crack motorized units of the Arab Legionwhich occupied Tamanrasset, was fuming. His task was a double one.First, to hold Tamanrasset and its former French stronghold FortLaperrine; second, to keep open his lines of communication withGhademes and Ghat, in Arab Union dominated Libya. To hold them untilfurther steps were decided upon by his superiors in Cairo and theNear East--whatever these steps might be. Colonel Midan Ibrahim wastoo low in the Arab Union hierarchy to be in on such privy matters.
His original efforts, in pushing across the Sahar
a from Ghademes andGhat, had been no more than desert maneuvers. There had been no forceother than nature's to say him nay. The Reunited Nations was anorganization composed possibly of great powers, but in supposedlyacting in unison they became a shrieking set of hair-tearing women;the whole being less than any of its individual parts. And El Hassan?No more than a rumor. In fact, an asset because this supposed mysteryman of the desert, bent on uniting all North Africa under hisdomination, gave the Arab Union, its alibi for stepping in withColonel Ibrahim's men.
Yes, the original efforts had been but a drill. But now his ArabLegion troopers were beginning to face reality. The supply trucks,coming down under convoy from Ghademes, reported the water source atOhanet