The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  “I see,” Crawford said.

  The other laughed cheerfully. “I’m sure you do, Dr. Crawford. A word to the wise.”

  * * * *

  They remained silent on the way back to the hotel.

  In the lobby they ran into Isobel Cunningham.

  Homer Crawford looked at her thoughtfully. He said, “We’ve got some thinking to do and some ideas to bat back and forth. I value your opinion and experience, Isobel, could you come up to the suite and sit in?”

  She tilted her head, looked at him from the side of her eyes. “Something big has happened, hasn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t know. We’ve got to make some decisions.”

  “Come on Isobel,” Abe said. “You can give us the feminine viewpoint and all that jazz.”

  They started for the elevator and Isobel said to Abe, “If you’d just be consistent with that pseudo-beatnik chatter of yours, I wouldn’t mind. But half the time you talk like an English lit major when you forget to put on your act.”

  “Man,” Abe said to her, “maybe I was wrong inviting you to sit in on this bull session. I can see you’re in a bad mood.”

  In the living room of the suite, Isobel took an easy-chair and Abe threw himself full length on his back on a couch. Homer Crawford paced the floor.

  “Well?” Isobel said.

  Crawford said abruptly, “Somebody tried to poison me last night. Got into this room somehow and put cyanide in a bottle of cognac Abe and I were drinking out of earlier in the evening.”

  Isobel stared at him. Her eyes went from him to Abe and back. “But…but, why?”

  Crawford ran his hand back over his wiry hair in puzzlement. “I…I don’t know. That’s what’s driving me batty. I can’t figure out why anybody would want to kill me.”

  “I can,” Abe said bluntly. “And that interview we just had with Sven Zetterberg just bears me out.”

  “Zetterberg,” Isobel said, surprised. “Is he in Africa?”

  Crawford nodded to her question but his eyes were on Abe.

  Abe put his hands behind his head and said to the ceiling, “Zetterberg just gave Homer’s team the assignment of bringing in El Hassan.”

  “El Hassan? But you boys told us all in Timbuktu that there was no El Hassan. You invented him and then the rest of us, more or less spontaneously, though unknowingly, took up the falsification and spread your work.”

  “That’s right,” Crawford said, still looking at Abe.

  “But didn’t you tell Sven Zetterberg?” Isobel demanded. “He’s too big a man to play jokes upon.”

  “No, I didn’t and I’m not sure I know why.”

  “I know why,” Abe said. He sat up suddenly and swung his feet around and to the floor.

  The other two watched him, both frowning.

  Abe said slowly, “Homer, you are El Hassan.”

  His chief scowled at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  The younger man gestured impatiently. “Figure it out. Somebody else already has, the somebody who took a shot at you from that mosque. Look, put it all together and it makes sense.

  “These North Africans aren’t going to make it, not in the short period of time that we want them to, unless a leader appears on the scene. These people are just beginning to emerge from tribal society. In the tribes, people live by rituals and taboos, by traditions. But at the next step in the evolution of society they follow a Hero—and the traditions are thrown overboard. It’s one step up the ladder of cultural evolution. Just for the record, the Heroes almost invariably get clobbered in the end, since a Hero must be perfect. Once he is found wanting in any respect, he’s a false prophet, a cheat, and a new, perfect and faultless Hero must be found.

  “O.K. At this stage we need a Hero to unite North Africa, but this time we need a real super-Hero. In this modern age, the old style one won’t do. We need one with education, and altruism, one with the dream, as you call it. We need a man who has no affiliations, no preferences for Tuareg, Teda, Chaambra, Dogon, Moor or whatever. He’s got to be truly neutral. O.K., you’re it. You’re an American Negro, educated, competent, widely experienced. You’re a natural for the job. You speak Arabic, French, Tamabeq, Songhai and even Swahili.”

  Abe stopped momentarily and twisted his face in a grimace. “But there’s one other thing that’s possibly the most important of all. Homer, you’re a born leader.”

  “Who me?” Crawford snorted. “I hate to be put in a position where I have to lead men, make decisions, that sort of thing.

  “That’s beside the point. There in Timbuktu you had them in the palm of your hand. All except one or two, like Doc Smythe and that missionary. And I have an idea even they’d come around. Everybody there felt it. They were in favor of anything you suggested. Isobel?”

  She nodded, very seriously. “Yes. You have a personality that goes over, Homer. I think it would be a rare person who could conceive of you cheating, or misleading. You’re so obviously sincere, competent and intelligent that it, well, projects itself. I noticed it even more in Mopti than Timbuktu. You had that city in your palm in a matter of a few hours.”

  Homer Crawford shifted his shoulders, uncomfortably.

  Abe said, “You might dislike the job, but it’s a job that needs doing.”

  Crawford ran his hand around the back of his neck, uncomfortably. “You think such a project would get the support of the various teams and organizations working North Africa, eh?”

  “Practically a hundred per cent. And even if some organizations or even countries, with their own row to hoe, tried to buck you, their individual members and teams would come over. Why? Because it makes sense.”

  Homer Crawford said worriedly, “Actually, I’ve realized this, partially subconsciously, for some time. But I didn’t put myself in the role. I…I wish there really was an El Hassan. I’d throw my efforts behind him.”

  “There will be an El Hassan,” Abe said definitely. “And you can be him.”

  Crawford stared at Abe, undecided.

  Isobel said, suddenly, “I think Abe’s right, Homer.”

  * * * *

  Abe seemed to switch the tempo of his talk. He said, “There’s just one thing, Homer. It’s a long range question, but it’s an important one.”

  “Yes?”

  “What’re your politics?”

  “My politics? I haven’t any politics here in North Africa.”

  “I mean back home. I’ve never discussed politics with you, Homer, partly because I haven’t wanted to reveal my own. But now the question comes up. What is your position, ultimately, speaking on a world-wide basis?”

  Homer looked at him quizzically, trying to get at what was behind the other’s words. “I don’t belong to any political party,” he said slowly.

  Abe said evenly, “I do, Homer. I’m a Party member.”

  Crawford was beginning to get it. “If you mean do I ultimately support the program of the Soviet Complex, the answer is definitely no. Whether or not it’s desirable for Russia or for China, is up to the Russians and Chinese to decide. But I don’t believe it’s desirable for such advanced countries as the United States and most of Western Europe. We’ve got large problems that need answering, but the commies don’t supply the answers so far as I’m concerned.”

  “I see,” Abe said. He was far, far different than the laughing, beatnik jabbering, youngster he had always seemed. “That’s not so good.”

  “Why not?” Homer demanded. His eyes went to where Isobel sat, her face strained at all this, but he could read nothing in her expression, and she said nothing.

  Abe said, “Because, admittedly, North Africa isn’t ready for a communist program as yet. It’s in too primitive a condition. However, it’s progressing fast, fantastically fast, and the coming of El Hassan is going to speed things up still more.”

  Abe said deliberately, “Possibly twenty years from now the area will be ready for a communist program. And at that time we don’t want somebody wi
th El Hassan’s power and prestige against us. We take the long view, Homer, and it dictates that El Hassan has to be secretly on the Party’s side.”

  Homer was nodding. “I see. So that’s why you shot at me in Timbuktu.”

  Abe’s eyes went wary. He said, “I didn’t know you knew.”

  Crawford nodded. “It just came to me. It had to be you. Supposedly, you broke into the mosque from the back at the same moment I came in the front. Actually, you were already inside.” Homer grunted. “Besides, it would have been awfully difficult for anyone else to have doped that bottle of cognac on me. What I couldn’t understand, and still can’t, was motive. We’ve been in the clutch together more than once, Abe.”

  “That’s right, Homer, but there are some things so important that friendship goes by the board. I could see as far back as that meeting something that hadn’t occurred to either you or the others. You were a born El Hassan. I figured it was necessary to get you out of the way and put one of our own—perhaps me, even—in your place. No ill feelings, Homer. In fact, now I’ve just given you your chance. You could come in with us—”

  Even as he was speaking, his eyes moved in a way Homer Crawford recognized. He’d seen Abe Baker in action often enough. A gun flicked out of an under-the-arm holster, but Crawford moved in anticipation. The flat of his hand darted forward, chopped and the hand weapon was on the floor.

  As Isobel screamed, Abe countered the attack. He reached forward in a jujitsu maneuver, grabbed a coat sleeve and a handful of suit coat. He twisted quickly, threw the other man over one hip and to the floor.

  But Homer Crawford was already expertly rolling with the fall, rolling out to get a fresh start.

  Abe Baker knew that in the long go, in spite of his somewhat greater heft, he wouldn’t be able to take his former chief in the other man’s own field. Now he threw himself on the other, on the floor. Legs and arms tangled in half realized, quickly defeated holds and maneuvers.

  Abe called, “Quick, Isobel, the gun. Get the gun and cover him.”

  She shook her head, desperately. “Oh no. No!”

  Abe bit out, his teeth grinding under the punishment he was taking, “That’s an order, Comrade Cunningham! Get the gun!”

  “No. No, I can’t!” She turned and fled the room.

  Abe muttered an obscenity, bridged and crabbed out of the desperate position he was in. And now his fingers were but a few inches from the weapon. He stretched.

  Homer Crawford, heavy veins in his own forehead from his exertions, panted, “Abe, I can’t let you get that gun. Call it quits.”

  “Can’t, Homer,” Abe gritted. His fingers were a few fractions of an inch from the weapon.

  Crawford panted, “Abe, there’s just one thing I can do. A karate blow. I can chop your windpipe with the side of my hand. Abe, if I do, only immediate surgery could save your—”

  Abe’s fingers closed about the gun and Crawford, calling on his last resources, lashed out. He could feel the cartilage collapse, a sound of air, for a moment, almost like a shriek filled the room.

  The gun was meaningless now. Homer Crawford, his face agonized, was on his knees beside the other who was threshing on the floor. “Abe,” he groaned. “You made me.”

  Abe Baker’s face was quickly going ashen in his impossible quest for oxygen. For a last second there was a gleam in his eyes and his lips moved. Crawford bent down. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that somehow the other found enough air to get out a last, “Crazy man.”

  When it was over, Homer Crawford stood again, and looked down at the body, his face expressionless.

  From behind him a voice said, “So I got here too late.”

  Crawford turned. It was Elmer Allen, gun in hand.

  Homer Crawford said dully, “What are you doing here?”

  Elmer looked at the body, then back at his chief. “Bey figured out what must have happened at the mosque there in Timbuktu. We didn’t know what might be motivating Abe, but we got here as quick as we could.”

  “He was a commie,” Crawford said dully. “Evidently, the Party decided I stood in its way. Where are the others?”

  “Scouring the town to find you.”

  Crawford said wearily, “Find the others and bring them here. We’ve got to get rid of poor Abe, there, and then I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Very well, chief,” Elmer said, holstering his gun. “Oh, just one thing before I go. You know that chap Rex Donaldson? Well, we had some discussion after you left. This’ll probably surprise you Homer, but—hold onto your hat, as you Americans say—Donaldson thinks you ought to become El Hassan. And Bey, Kenny and I agree.”

  Crawford said, “We’ll talk about it later, Elmer.”

  * * * *

  He knocked at her door and a moment later she came. She saw who it was, opened for him and returned to the room beyond. She had obviously been crying.

  Homer Crawford said, but with no reproach in his voice, “You should have helped me, to be consistent.”

  “I knew you’d win.”

  “Nevertheless, once you’d switched sides, you should have attempted to help me. If you had, maybe Abe would still be alive.”

  She took a quick agonized breath, and sat down in one of the two chairs, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She said, “I…I’ve known Abe since my early teens.”

  He said nothing.

  “In college, he was the cell leader. He enlisted me into the Party.”

  Crawford still didn’t speak.

  She said defiantly, “He was an idealist, Homer.”

  “I know that,” Crawford said. “And along with it, he’s saved my life, on at least three different occasions in the past few years. He was a good man.”

  It was her turn to hold silence.

  Homer hit the palm of his left hand with the fist of his right. “That’s what so many don’t realize. They think this is all a kind of cowboys and Indians affair. The good guys and the bad guys fighting it out. And, of course, all the good guys are on our side and their side is composed of bad guys. They don’t realize that many, even most, of the enemy are fighting for an ideal, too—and are willing to die for it, or do things sometimes even harder than dying.”

  He paced the floor for an agonized moment, before adding. “The fact that the ideal is a false one—or so, at least, is my opinion—is beside the point.”

  He suddenly dropped it and switched subjects. “This isn’t as much a surprise to me as you possibly think, Isobel. There was only one way that episode in Timbuktu could have taken place. Abe was waiting for me to pass that mosque. But I had to pass. I had to be fingered as the old gangster expression had it. And you led me into the ambush.”

  He looked down at her. “But what changed his mind? Why did he offer, tonight, to let me take over the El Hassan leadership?”

  Isobel said, her voice low. “In Timbuktu, when Abe saw the way things were going, he realized you’d have to be liquidated, otherwise El Hassan would be a leader the Party couldn’t control. He tried to eliminate you, and then tried again with the cognac. Last night, however, he checked with local party leaders and they decided that he’d acted too precipitately. They suggested you be given the opportunity to line up with the Party.”

  “And if I didn’t?” Homer said.

  “Then you were to be liquidated.”

  “So the finger is still on me, eh?”

  “Yes, you’ll have to be careful.”

  He looked full into her face. “How do you stand now?”

  She returned his frank look. “I’m the first follower to dedicate her services to El Hassan.”

  “So you want to come along?”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  “And you remember what Abe said? That in the end the Hero invariably gets clobbered? Sooner or later, North Africa will outgrow the need for a Hero to follow and then…then El Hassan and his closest followers have a good chance of winding up before a firing squad.”

  “Yes, I know tha
t.”

  Homer Crawford ran his hand back over his short hair, wearily. “O.K., Isobel. Your first instructions are to contact those two friends of yours, Jake Armstrong and Cliff Jackson. Try to convert them.”

  “What are you going to be doing…El Hassan?”

  “I’m going over to the Reunited Nations to resign from the African Development Project. I have a sneaking suspicion that in the future they will not always be seeing eye to eye with El Hassan. Nor will the other organizations currently helping to advance Africa—whilst still at the same time keeping their own irons in the fire. Possibly the commies won’t be the only ones in favor of liquidating El Hassan’s assets.”

  SUBVERSIVE

  The young man with the brown paper bag said, “Is Mrs. Coty in?”

  “I’m afraid she isn’t. Is there anything I can do?”

  “You’re Mr. Coty? I came about the soap.” He held up the paper bag.

  “Soap?” Mr. Coty said blankly. He was the epitome of mid-aged husband complete to pipe, carpet slippers and office-slump posture.

  “That’s right. I’m sure she told you about it. My name’s Dickens. Warren Dickens. I sold her—”

  “Look here, you mean to tell me in this day and age you go around from door to door peddling soap? Great guns, boy, you’d do better on unemployment insurance. It’s permanent now.”

  Warren Dickens registered distress. “Mr. Coty, could I come in and tell you about it? If I can make the first delivery to you instead of Mrs. Coty, shucks, it’ll save me coming back.”

  Coty led him back into the living room, motioned him to a chair and settled into what was obviously his own favorite, handily placed before the telly. Coty said tolerantly, “Now then, what’s this about selling soap? What kind of soap? What brand?”

  “Oh, it has no name, sir. That’s the point.”

  The other looked at him.

  “That’s why we can sell it for three cents a cake, instead of twenty-five.” Dickens opened the paper bag and fished out an ordinary enough looking cake of soap and handed it to the older man.