Isobel looked at Homer Crawford when he finished the story, and laughed. “Why in the world didn’t that missionary society refuse the old lady’s gift?”
He laughed in return and shrugged. “They couldn’t. She might get into a huff and not mention them in her will. Missionary societies can’t afford to discourage gifts.”
She made her selection from the menu, and told the waiter in French, and then settled back. She resumed the conversation. “The cost of maintaining a missionary in this sort of country must have been fantastic.”
“Um-m-m,” Crawford growled. “I sometimes wonder how many millions upon millions of dollars, pounds and francs have been plowed into this continent on such projects. This particular missionary wasn’t a medical man and didn’t even run a school and in the six years he was here didn’t make a single convert.”
Isobel said, “Which brings us to our own pet projects. Homer—I can call you Homer, I suppose, being your brand new secretary.…”
He grinned at her. “I’ll make that concession.”
“… What’s your own dream?”
He broke some bread, automatically doing it with his left hand, as prescribed in the Koran. They both noticed it, and both laughed.
“I’m conditioned,” he said.
“Me, too,” Isobel admitted. “It’s all I can do to use a knife and fork.”
He went back to her question, scowling. “My dream? I don’t know. Right now I feel a little depressed about it all. When Elmer Allen spoke about spending the rest of our lives on this job, I suddenly realized that was about it. And, you know”—he looked up at her—“I don’t particularly like Africa. I’m an American.”
She looked at him oddly. “Then why stay here?”
“Because there’s so much that needs to be done.”
“Yes, you’re right and what Cliff Jackson said to the doctor was correct, too. We all do what we must do and what we can do.”
“Well, that brings us back to your question. What is my own dream? I’m afraid I’m too far along in life to acquire new ones, and my basic dream is an American one.”
“And that is—?” Isobel prompted.
He shrugged again, slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of this pretty girl. “I’m a sociologist, Isobel. I suppose I seek Utopia.”
She frowned at him as though disappointed. “Is Utopia possible?”
“No, but there is always the search for it. It’s a goal that recedes as you approach, which is as it should be. Heaven help mankind if we ever achieve it; we’ll be through because there will be no place to go, and man needs to strive.”
They had finished their soup and the entree had arrived. Isobel picked at it, her ordinarily smooth forehead wrinkled. “The way I see it, Utopia is not heaven. Heaven is perfect, but Utopia is an engineering optimum, the best-possible-human-techniques. Therefore we will not have perfect justice in Utopia, nor will everyone get the exactly proper treatment. We design for optimum—not perfection. But granting this, then attainment is possible.”
She took a bite of the food before going on thoughtfully. “In fact, I wonder if, during man’s history, he hasn’t obtained his Utopias from time to time. Have you ever heard the adage that any form of government works fine and produces a Utopia provided it is managed by wise, benevolent and competent rulers?” She laughed and said mischievously, “Both Heaven and Hell are traditionally absolute monarchies—despotisms. The form of government evidently makes no difference, it’s who runs it that determines.”
Crawford was shaking his head. “I’ve heard the adage but I don’t accept it. Under certain socio-economic conditions the best of men, and the wisest, could do little if they had the wrong form of government. Suppose, for instance, you had a government which was a military-theocracy which is more or less what existed in Mexico at the time of the Cortez conquest. Can you imagine such a government working efficiently if the socio-economic system had progressed to the point where there were no longer wars and where practically everyone were atheists, or, at least, agnostics?”
She had to laugh at his ludicrous example. “That’s a rather silly situation, isn’t it? Such wise, benevolent men, would change the governmental system.”
Crawford pushed his point. “Not necessarily. Here’s a better example. Immediately following the American Revolution, some of the best, wisest and most competent men the political world has ever seen were at the head of the government of Virginia. Such men as Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Washington. Their society was based on chattel slavery and they built a Utopia for themselves but certainly not for the slaves who out-numbered them. Not that they weren’t kindly and good men. A man of Jefferson’s caliber, I am sure, would have done anything in the world for those darkies of his—except get off their backs. Except to grant them the liberty and the right to pursue happiness that he demanded for himself. He was blinded by self interest, and the interests of his class.”
“Perhaps they didn’t want liberty,” Isobel mused. “Slavery isn’t necessarily an unhappy life.”
“I never thought it was. And I’m the first to admit that at a certain stage in the evolution of society, it was absolutely necessary. If society was to progress, then there had to be a class that was freed from daily drudgery of the type forced on primitive man if he was to survive. They needed the leisure time to study, to develop, to invent. With the products of their studies, they were able to advance all society. However, so long as slavery is maintained, be it necessary or not, you have no Utopia. There is no Utopia so long as one man denies another his liberty be it under chattel slavery, feudalism, or whatever.”
Isobel said dryly, “I see why you say your Utopia will never be reached, that it continually recedes.”
He laughed, ruefully. “Don’t misunderstand. I think that particular goal can and will be reached. My point was that by the time we reach it, there will be a new goal.”
* * * *
The girl, finished with her main dish, sat back in her chair, and looked at him from the side of her eyes, as though wondering whether or not he could take what she was about to say in the right way. She said, slowly, “You know, with possibly a few exceptions, you can’t enslave a man if he doesn’t want to be a slave. For instance, the white man was never able to enslave the Amerind; he died before he would become a slave. The majority of Jefferson’s slaves wanted to be slaves. If there were those among them that had the ability to revolt against slave psychology, a Jefferson would quickly promote such. A valuable human being will be treated in a manner proportionate to his value. A wise, competent, trustworthy slave became the major domo of the master’s estate—with privileges and authority actually greater than that of free employees of the master.”
Crawford thought about that for a moment. “I’ll take that,” he said. “What’s the point you’re trying to make?”
“I, too, was set a-thinking by some of the things said at the meeting, Homer. In particular, what Dr. Smythe had to say. Homer, are we sure these people want the things we are trying to give them?”
He looked at her uncomfortably. “No they don’t,” he said bluntly. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here, either your AFAA or my African Development Project. We utilize persuasion, skullduggery, and even force to subvert their institutions, to destroy their present culture. Yes. I’ve known this a long time.”
“Then how do you justify your being here?”
He grinned sourly. “Let’s put it this way. Take the new government in Egypt. They send the army into some of the small back-country towns with bayoneted rifles, and orders to use them if necessary. The villagers are forced to poison their ancient village wells—one of the highest of imaginable crimes in such country, imposed on them ruthlessly. Then they are forced to dig new ones in new places that are not intimately entangled with their own sewage drainage. Naturally they hate the government. In other towns, the army has gone in and, at gun point, forced the parents to give up their children, taken the children away in trucks and ‘i
mprisoned’ them in schools. Look, back in the States we have trouble with the Amish, who don’t want their children to be taught modern ways. What sort of reaction do you think the tradition-ritual-tabu-tribesmen of the six thousand year old Egyptian culture have to having modern education imposed on their children?”
Isobel was frowning at him.
Crawford wound it up. “That’s the position we’re in. That’s what we’re doing. Giving them things they need, in spite of the fact they don’t want them.”
“But why?”
He said, “You know the answer to that as well as I do. It’s like giving medical care to Typhoid Mary, in spite of the fact that she didn’t want it and didn’t believe such things as typhoid microbes existed. We had to protect the community against her. In the world today, such backward areas as Africa are potential volcanoes. We’ve got to deal with them before they erupt.”
The waiter came with the bill and Homer took it.
Isobel said, “Let’s go Dutch on that.”
He grinned at her. “Consider it a donation to the AFAA.”
Out on the street again, they walked slowly in the direction of the old administration buildings where both had left their means of transportation.
Isobel, who was frowning thoughtfully, evidently over the things that had been said, said, “Let’s go this way. I’d like to see the old Great Mosque, in the Dyingerey Ber section of town. It’s always fascinated me.”
Crawford said, looking at her and appreciating her attractiveness, all over again, “You know Timbuktu quite well, don’t you?”
“I’ve just finished a job down in Kabara, and it’s only a few miles away.”
“Just what sort of thing do you do?”
She shrugged and made a moue. “Our little team concentrates on breaking down the traditional position of women in these cultures. To get them to drop the veil, go to school. That sort of thing. It’s a long story and—”
Homer Crawford suddenly and violently pushed her to the side and to the ground and at the same time dropped himself and rolled frantically to the shelter of an adobe wall which had once been part of a house but now was little more than waist high.
“Down!” he yelled at her.
She bug-eyed him as though he had gone suddenly mad.
There was a heavy, stub-nosed gun suddenly in his hand. He squirmed forward on elbows and belly, until he reached the corner.
“What’s the matter?” she blurted.
He said grimly, “See those three holes in the wall above you?”
She looked up, startled.
He said, grimly, “They weren’t there a moment ago.”
What he was saying, dawned upon her. “But…but I heard no shots.”
He cautiously peered around the wall, and was rewarded with a puff of sand inches from his face. He pulled his head back and his lips thinned over his teeth. He said to her, “Efficiently silenced guns have been around for quite a spell. Whoever that is, is up there in the mosque. Listen, beat your way around by the back streets and see if you can find the members of my team, especially Abe Baker or Bey-ag-Akhamouk. Tell them what happened and that I think I’ve got the guy pinned down. That mosque is too much out in the open for him to get away without my seeing him.”
“But…but who in the world would want to shoot you, Homer?”
“Search me,” he growled. “My team has never operated in this immediate area.”
“But then, it must be someone who was at the meeting.”
VI
“That is was,” Homer said grimly. “Now, go see if you can find my lads, will you? This joker is going to fall right into our laps. It’s going to be interesting to find out who hates the idea of African development so much that they’re willing to commit assassination.”
But it didn’t work out that way.
Isobel found the other teammates one by one, and they came hurrying up from different directions to the support of their chief. They had been a team for years and operating as they did and where they did, each man survived only by selfless co-operation with all the others. In action, they operated like a single unit, their ability to co-operate almost as though they had telepathic communication.
From where he lay, Homer Crawford could see Bey-ag-Akhamouk, Tommy-Noiseless in hands, snake in from the left, running low and reaching a vantage point from which he could cover one flank of the ancient adobe mosque. Homer waved to him and Bey made motions to indicate that one of the others was coming in from the other side.
Homer waited for a few more minutes, then waved to Bey to cover him. The streets were empty at this time of midday when the Sahara sun drove the town’s occupants into the coolness of dark two-foot-thick walled houses. It was as though they were operating in a ghost town. Homer came to his feet and handgun in fist made a dash for the front entrance.
Bey’s light automatic flic flic flicked its excitement and dust and dirt enveloped the wall facing Crawford. Homer reached the doorway, stood there for a full two minutes while he caught his breath. From the side of his eye he could see Elmer Allen, his excellent teeth bared as always when the Jamaican went into action, come running up to the right in that half crouch men automatically go into in combat, instinctively presenting as small a target as possible. He was evidently heading for a side door or window.
The object now was to refrain from killing the sniper. The important thing was to be able to question him. Perhaps here was the answer to the massacre of the Cubans. Homer took another deep breath, smashed the door open with a heavy shoulder and dashed inward and immediately to one side. At the same moment, Abe Baker, Tommy-Noiseless in hand, came in from the rear door, his eyes darting around trying to pierce the gloom of the unlighted building.
Elmer Allen erupted through a window, rolled over on the floor and came to rest, his gun trained.
“Where is he?” Abe snapped.
Homer motioned with his head. “Must be up in the remains of the minaret.”
Abe got to the creaking, age-old stairway first. In cleaning out a hostile building, the idea is to move fast and keep on the move. Stop, and you present a target.
But there was no one in the minaret.
“Got away,” Homer growled. His face was puzzled. “I felt sure we’d have him.”
Bey-ag-Akhamouk entered. He grunted his disappointment. “What happened, anyway? That girl Isobel said a sniper took some shots at you and you figure it must’ve been somebody at the meeting.”
“Somebody at the meeting?” Abe said blankly. “What kind of jazz is that? You flipping, man?”
Homer looked at him strangely.
“Who else could it be, Abe? We’ve never operated this far south. None of the inhabitants in this area even know us, and it certainly couldn’t have been an attempt at robbery.”
“There were some cats at that meeting didn’t appreciate our ideas, man, but I can’t see that old preacher or Doc Smythe trying to put the slug on you.”
Kenny Ballalou came in on the double, gun in hand, his face anxious.
Abe said sarcastically, “Man, we’d all be dead if we had to wait on you.”
“That girl Isobel. She said somebody took a shot at the chief.”
Homer explained it, sourly. A sniper had taken a few shots at him, then managed to get away.
Isobel entered, breathless, followed by Jake Armstrong.
Abe grunted, “Let’s hold another convention. This is like old home town week.”
Her eyes went from one of them to the other. “You’re not hurt?”
“Nobody hurt, but the cat did all the shooting got away,” Abe said unhappily.
Jake said, and his voice was worried, “Isobel told me what happened. It sounds insane.”
They discussed it for a while and got exactly nowhere. Their conversation was interrupted by a clicking at Homer Crawford’s wrist. He looked down at the tiny portable radio.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said to the others and went off a dozen steps or so to th
e side.
They looked after him.
Elmer Allen said sourly, “Another assignment. What we need is a union.”
Abe adopted the idea. “Man! Time and a half for overtime.”
“With a special cost of living clause—” Kenny Ballalou added.
“And housing and dependents allotment!” Abe crowed.
They all looked at him.
Bey tried to imitate the other’s beatnik patter. “Like, you got any dependents, man?”
Abe made a mark in the sand on the mosque’s floor with the toe of his shoe, like a schoolboy up before the principal for an infraction of rules, and registered embarrassment. “Well, there’s that cute little Tuareg girl up north.”
“Ha!” Isobel said. “And all these years you’ve been leading me on.”
Homer Crawford returned and his face was serious. “That does it,” he muttered disgustedly. “The fat’s in the fire.”
“Like, what’s up, man?”
Crawford looked at his right-hand man. “There are demonstrations in Mopti. Riots.”
“Mopti?” Jake Armstrong said, surprised. “Our team was working there just a couple of months ago. I thought everything was going fine in Mopti.”
“They’re going fine, all right,” Crawford growled. “So well, that the local populace wants to speed up even faster.”
They were all looking their puzzlement at him.
“The demonstrations are in favor of El Hassan.”
Their faces turned blank. Crawford’s eyes swept his teammates. “Our instructions are to get down there and do what we can to restore order. Come on, let’s go. I’m going to have to see if I can arrange some transportation. It’d take us two days to get there in our outfits.”
Jake Armstrong said, “Wait a minute, Homer. My team was heading back for Dakar for a rest and new assignments. We’d be passing Mopti anyway. How many of you are there, five? If you don’t haul too much luggage with you; we could give you a lift.”
“Great,” Homer told him. “We’ll take you up on that. Abe, Elmer, let’s get going. We’ll have to repack. Bey, Kenny, see about finding some place we can leave the lorries until we come back. This job shouldn’t take more than a few days at most.”
The Mack Reynolds Megapack Page 63