by Dean Ing
"You accept conflict," she said.
He moved still closer to her, his face slightly slack, as though from the drink, and put an arm around her shoulders. At that she stiffened slightly.
"Yes," he said. "We fight. No longer do we bob apologetically and call all white men, 'Captain,' or say, 'Yes, suh.' No longer do we step down off the curb when a white comes along. We'll fight that to the death."
"You mean, you've actually participated in… killing people who stand in the way of minority rights?"
He moved still closer and scowled his surprise. "Oh, of course not. A few extreme cases have taken place—blacks who have returned gunfire, that sort of thing. But not League members. We don't condone violence. That would just give the enemy an opening, a wedge to get at us." He moved closer still.
She tried to maneuver away from him, without being too obvious about it, but his arm was a restraint around her shoulders.
She got out, "Yes… but, you just said that now you fought back."
His dark eyes were hotly on her own blue ones now. There was a slur in his voice. "That was, uh, figuratively speaking, not literally meant."
She was breathing in short gasps as his left hand came forward and rested on her belly. Suddenly, her eyes widened in fear and she pushed back violently. "Don't… don't!" she shrilled. "Let me loose, you nigger!"
Hamp stood up and looked down at her, shrinking against the far end of the couch. He laughed. Gone were all signs of his drinking.
She panted, "What are you laughing at, you black bastard?"
He rubbed the knuckles of his left hand over his mouth and, laughing still, said, "You make a hell of an agent provocateur, Ms. Garrett. I'm afraid you're the victim of your own prejudiced beliefs. You see, one of the oldest wive's tales is the one about blacks lusting for the fair white bodies of Caucasians. On the face of it, it's nonsense. Didn't it ever occur to you that possibly you're not attractive to blacks? Your fine blonde hair might lack appeal. Didn't it ever occur to you that blacks might prefer brunette beauty, that perhaps your nose might be much too thin, your complexion—forgive me—washed out, perhaps all but repulsive? If I had to pick the most attractive whites, it would be the girls of southern Italy and Sicily, of Andalusian Spain, or Greece. Brunettes with dark complexions. But Scandinavians? No thank you, I don't screw blondes."
"You're disgusting," she said contemptuously. "Every word of this is being taped, of course."
He laughed again, preparatory to leaving. "I suspected it. I always suspect it. But you see, Ms. Garrett, I have said nothing to you that isn't to be found in our literature—our leaflets, pamphlets, and books."
"You said that these days you're fighting back. An eye for an eye and so forth."
He smiled at her. "All figurative, Ms. Garrett, as I pointed out to you. The League does not condone violence. And now, thank you for the excellent martinis, and good day."
He turned and left.
On his way down to the ground floor he wondered who had sent her. Possibly the IABI? Or, just possibly, she might have been working on her own. He had been poorly managed, whoever had set it up. Undoubtedly, they had thought that her obvious wealth and position would immediately gain her access to the higher echelons of the Anti-Racist League, where she could infiltrate and secure inside information. He shook his head again. They simply couldn't realize that the
League, although it had a scattering of white members, wasn't particularly impressed by either their whiteness or money. The usual militant in the League was better educated than most, though often self-educated, and was dedicated, disciplined, and competent.
He retraced his way to the transportation terminal and retrieved the suitcase he had checked earlier. He took the first ' centy-seater scheduled for Manhattan's Grand Central Terminal. On his way, he brought forth his transceiver and reported to the National Activities Committee the results of his contact with Lee Garrett.
He hailed an automated hovercab, the only vehicle allowed on the surface in the city, and dialed a renowned men's store. Manhattan was still a center for those who ignored the ultra-markets and resorted to privately owned swank shops.
There, he quickly disillusioned the clerk, who eyed his color, shabby suit, and battered suitcase, saying, "I'm just in from the Coast where I've been roughing it. gathering material for my latest novel. I want a complete utitfit in which I can walk out of here. The very best, of course."
"Oh, yes, sir," the other said. "I'm sure we can accommodate you."
When Hamp left, an hour or so later, he not only wore the latest in expensive men's wear, but also had two new pieces of imported British luggage. He had paid with an International Credit Card issued on a Berne, Switzerland bank.
The boys carrying his luggage took everything out to the curb and summoned another hovercab for him. He dialed and settled back. His destination turned out to be one of the taller, more impressive office buildings the island boasted. The cab had been directed to a minor entrance on a side street. He entered alone. There was no doorman nor any other building employee nor resident to be seen. He brought a key ring from his pocket, selected a small silver key, and opened the door of an elevator.
The elevator compartment, without a command as to his destination, accelerated not too quickly but for a lengthy period before reaching its ultimate speed. He was able to adjust without bending his knees.
He emerged finally into a large office reception room which was unoccupied and strolled across it to a heavy door.
Though metallic, it was attractively well done to disguise its strength. He opened it with another key.
Beyond was a roomy office with four desks and beyond that, a still more ample one with a single large desk. He passed through both of the silent rooms and on into an extensive terrace apartment.
Obviously at ease, he made his way to a master bedroom, where he put down his bags and stripped, then entered the bath, which had a connecting dressing room. In the bath, he used still another small key to open a medical cabinet, from which he brought forth a hypodermic needle, a small bottle, and a jar.
Expertly, he loaded the syringe and injected himself. He then sat before the dressing-room mirror and removed the contact lenses from his eyes, revealing their natural dark blue. He put the fingernails of his two little fingers into his nostrils and brought forth two ring-like metal spreaders which altered the shape of his nose. He returned to the bathroom, took up the jar he had taken from the medical cabinet, and entered the shower stall. When he had adjusted the spray to his satisfaction he began vigorously to shampoo his hair with dabs of the contents of the jar. He entered the shower with black wiry hair and left it with darkish red hair, considerably straighten and looking like a young athlete's crew cut.
He checked in a mirror, found that the injection hadn't begun to work. In a white silk kimono and matching slippers, he shuffled back into the living room and the extensive study.
He sat at the desk and flicked on the TV phone, activating the stud which would prevent his own face from being transmitted, punched two numbers, and waited until the screen lit up. He said to the subservient face there, "Simmons, I shall be in residence, here in Manhattan, for an indefinite period. Please summon the staff immediately. I wish to dine here this evening. Inform Henri that I expect him to surpass himself. I have been subjected to atrocious food for longer than I care to think about."
"Very good, sir."
The face of Simmons faded and Horace Hampton punched two more numbers. The new face was that of an efficient businessman somewhere in his early middle years.
Hamp said, "Barry, I'm back in the States, here in Manhattan. Have one of the office teams assembled. Include yourself and, let me see, Ted, and, ah, Lester. Among other things, we'll have to do some immediate work on the investments in Lagrange Five and the Asteroid Islands."
"Yes, sir," Barry said. "Sir, something has come up. I tried to contact you by every means but… well, with the usual results. It seems we have a situation
fraught with…"
"Tell me about it when you get here," Hamp said brusquely. "What's the enjoyment in being a recluse if every senior member of your staff can get in touch with you every time he thinks an emergency has surfaced?"
"Yes, sir." There was resigned disapproval in the other's face.
Hamp faded him off, arose from his chair, and stretched his shoulder muscles. In spite of the time of day, he went over to the bar and brought forth a bottle of stone age Armagnac and a snifter glass. He poured a sizable jolt, then went over to the bookshelves, searching for a moment before selecting a copy of Cheikh Anta Diop's The African Origin of Civilization in the original French, and returned with it to his chair.
In the next half hour he went through a good quarter of the brandy, several times checking with the mirror. At the end of that period he was satisfied with what he saw. The face that looked back at him was that of, say, a well-tanned Frenchman.
He went back into the study and again sat at his restricted phone screen. He punched for a foreign call and then twice again.
The face that appeared was a twin of his own, including dark blue eyes, crew-cut reddish hair, and the well-tanned face of a European playboy.
Hamp said briskly, "Jim, I'm taking over for an indefinite time, probably a month or so. Go to ground. Assume your usual identity. I'll get in touch when I need you."
The other grinned. "Any suggestions?"
"You might try the Malta retreat. But be on immediate call."
"You're the boss," Jim told him. "You slave driver." The face of his stand-in faded.
Chapter Five: Franklin Pinell
Frank Pinell looked about the shabby, windowless room of the Hotel Rome in the International Zone of Tangier. Ten dirhams a day. Two pseudo-dollars. Cheap, perhaps, for any shelter at all, but with the cost of food, his bankroll would melt away in short order.
It was late afternoon, but he'd had lunch on the jet with his two escorts and wasn't yet hungry. The thing to do was to get out and start to make contacts. If there were jobs to be had, he was going to have to find one soonest. He had only been here for a couple of hours but he had seen what poverty was like in the old, old town of Tangier and wanted no part of it. Seemingly, there was no sort of government relief whatever for the poor; certainly nothing like GAS.
It was orientation time; he must contact his fellow English-speaking residents. He went into the hall, taking the key that Luigi had given him, locking the door behind. Why, he couldn't say. He had left nothing in the room. He had nothing to leave. On his way out, he hung the key on the rack behind the desk. On the face of it, anyone coming along could have taken it down, or any of the others, and stripped the place. But strip it of what? He doubted that any of the other tenants of the fleabag had much more in the way of possessions than he had.
He walked down the rickety stairs to the ground level and looked up and down Rue Moussa Ben Moussair, as drab a street as he had ever seen. The cab driver who had stolen his luggage had told him that Pasteur Boulevard, the town center, was two blocks up. He headed left, reached Rue Goya, turned left again. He carefully checked his route, having no desire to get lost.
Two blocks up, Rue Goya came into Pasteur Boulevard and the immediate change couldn't have been more definite. Its two or three blocks could have been directly out of a swank Florida or Southern California resort. The cars, many chauffeur driven, were the latest from Common Europe, the Americas, and the Asiatic League. The pedestrians were largely Europeans with a sprinkling of Orientals and a few North Africans. All seemed prosperous—the suits of the men had been cut in London, Rome, Manhattan; the clothes of the women in Paris, Budapest, Copenhagen, or Los Angeles. The women were strictly Tri-Di shows. Most of them could have passed as the latest sex symbols of the entertainment world, or as fashion models. Every hair seemed to be in place. Quite a few tripped along behind poodles and Pomeranians.
Surprised by the opulence, Frank turned left on the boulevard and walked along slowly, staring into the shop windows. Save for such centers as Manhattan in his own country, in an age when cities were crumbling, Frank Pinell had seldom seen privately owned shops before. His was an era of automated ultra-markets, through which credit could purchase anything from a safety pin to a yacht. But these that lined the main boulevard of European Tangier were the purveyors of ultimate luxury—clothing and shoe stores, art galleries, jewelry stores, gourmet food shops, liquor stores. Mingled among them were small, intimate restaurants, offering the outstanding cuisines of the world, and even more intimate cocktail lounges. On the face of it, not all of Tangier was poverty-stricken.
He stood to one side for a moment and watched the pass-ersby. An Indian woman, a red caste mark on her forehead, went past in a golden sari. He had never witnessed a more graceful female in his life. A Parisian—by the looks of her—went by, complete with arrogant champagne poodle. What had MacDonald said about the Madrid mopsies being the most beautiful in the world? Frank doubted it. Perhaps this girl wasn't a prostitute, or even a mistress, but if she was he wondered vaguely what she charged for a night's entertainment. Two men passed briskly, attache cases in hand, in business suits that looked as though they'd come from the tailor's less than half an hour previously. They had the healthy, tanned, barbered, massaged look of the ultimately successful. Then an Oriental girl tripped along in an off-white silken
cheongsam, the slits at the outer thighs mesmerizing him. He had thought the Indian in her sari the epitome of grace, but this lovely little creature looked like a Chinese doll.
He looked up and down the boulevard, wondering where to go and what to do. All his impulses were to enter one of the bars and have the drink he needed. His present finances didn't allow for alcoholic beverages, certainly not at the prices that would prevail here.
A voice from behind him said, "Cooee, mate. You look like a flashing lost soul. Dinkum you do. Could a bloke give you a steer?"
Frank turned sharply. Grinning down at him from a height of at least six foot four was a long, cheerfully rugged type, a spanking new Australian bush hat pushed back on his head, but otherwise as nattily dressed as the other males on the street. Somehow, he looked slightly uncomfortable in his tailored afternoon suit. Indeed, he was on the gawky side, and obviously meant for the ranch, rather than a city's sidewalks.
Frank said, "What?"
"You look like a Yank, strewth, a Yank or maybe a Canuck, new in this barstid town. Don't want to be cheeky, but you don't look like you know your way around, what-o?"
Frank said, "Oh. Thanks. Fact is, I just pulled in and don't know the ropes. Is there some place, a neighborhood, where Americans hang out? Not just Americans, but anybody who speaks English." He hesitated, then stuck out his hand and said, "Frank Pinell. And, yeah, American. You're Australian?"
"Too right. Nat Fraser. Bonzer to meet you, Frank." His hand was huge, dry as the outback, and strong. "Not as many Yanks, Aussies, or even Limeys in town as you'd bloody well wish. You go crazy as a kookaburra for a fresh face or two."
"You're permanent here?" Frank said, regaining his well-squeezed and -pumped hand.
"Too true, oh my word. And don't think I wouldn't do a bunk if I could. Crikey, I haven't had a contract for donkey's years. Now, let's see. A bar where the English speaking coves hang out. Well, mate, actually there's three. There's the Parade, where the toffs take on their plonk." He took in Frank's suit. "Probably too rich for your blood, what-o?"
Frank said, after letting air out of his lungs ruefully, "Sounds like it. I'm on a limited budget and I need a job."
The Australian cocked his head at him. "Going to be in this googly town for a spell, eh?"
Frank could think of no reason for disguising his status. "I'm a deportee," he said, watching the other's face to get his reaction.
There wasn't any. Nat Fraser was going on as though he hadn't heard the confession. "Then there's the Carousel, over on Rue Rubens. Not your cup of tea, cobber. What do you Yanks call them? Gays. I doubt you get your
lollies that way."
"No," Frank said. "What's this third one?"
"Paul Rund's, down on the Grand Socco. That's the biggest souk in town. And Paul sells the cheapest plonk in Tangier. Drink it and you wake up with the jumping Joe Blakes in the moring, fair dinkum. As a matter of fact, cobber, I was off in that direction meself when I bagged you looking lost."
"If you don't mind, I'll tag along," Frank said. "Bloody well told. Let's go." They started up the boulevard.
Frank looked up at his elongated companion and said, "Do you think I might make a contact at this Paul's bar?"
Nat Fraser considered it. "With the two thousand Swiss francs I suppose you've got in your kick from your flashing government, I'd think you could wait it out until you're able to cobber up somebody who could give you a steer."
Frank inwardly winced but said nothing about the fact that his thousand pseudo-dollars had melted down to less than two hundred.
At the end of Pasteur Boulevard they entered an attractive square, largely lined with sidewalk cafes. "Place de France," the Aussie told Frank. The sidewalk tables were well patronized, largely by prosperous European types, most of whom were reading newspapers. Moroccan waiters, in red fezzes and baggy black pants like bloomers, scurried around taking and delivering orders. There was a superfluity of shoeshine boys.
They turned right, down a winding street considerably narrower than Pasteur Boulevard had been. The composition of the pedestrians began to change radically. As they progressed, they saw fewer people in European clothing and more in the dress of Africa, the Near East, and the Orient.
"The Rue de la Liberte," Nat Fraser told him. "Where the bloody twain meets. You know, East is East and West is West." He gave running comment on races and costume.
There were growing numbers of Rifs, Arabs, Berbers— even an occasional Blue Man down from the mountains. The name of the latter, Nat explained, sprang from the indigo dye of their robes which, when they sweated, came off on their skins, giving them an eerie look. At least half of the women still wore the djellaba or haik with veil; half the men wore the brown camel's-hair burnoose. Africa, evidently, changed slowly even in the 21st Century.