Blackman' Burden na-1

by Mack Reynolds

  Isobel pointed. “There, the Great Mosque.”

  Elmer Allen said, “Yes, and there. See those mobs?” He looked at Homer Crawford and said sourly, “Let’s try and remember who it was who first thought of the El Hassan idea. Then we can blame it on him.”

  Kenny Ballalou grumbled, “We all thought about it. Remember, we pulled into Tessalit and found that prehistoric refrigerator that worked on kerosene and there were a couple of dozen quarts of Norwegian beer, of all things, in it.”

  “And we bought them all,” Abe recalled happily. “Man, we hung one on.”

  Homer Crawford said to Cliff, “The Mopti airport is about twelve miles over to the east of the town.”

  “Yeah, I know. Been here before,” Cliff said. He called back to Ballalou, “And then what happened?”

  “We took the beer out into the desert and sat on a big dune. You can just begin to see the Southern Cross from there. Hangs right on the horizon. Beautiful.”

  Bey said, “I’ve never heard Kenny wax poetic before. I don’t know which sounds more lyrical, though, that cold beer or the Southern Cross.”

  Kenney said, “Anyway, that’s when El Hassan was dreamed up. We kicked the idea around until the beer was all gone. And when we awoke in the morning, complete with hangover, we had the gimmick which we hung all our propaganda on.”

  “El Hassan is turning out to be a hangover all right,” Elmer Allen grunted, choosing to misinterpret his teammate’s words. He peered down below. “And there the poor blokes are, rioting in favor of the product of those beer bottles.”

  “It was crazy beer, man,” Abe protested. “Real crazy.”

  Homer Crawford said, “I wish headquarters had more information to give us on this. All they said was, there were demonstrations in favor of El Hassan and they were afraid if things went too far that some of the hard work that’s been done here the past ten years might dissolve in the excitement: Dogon, Mosse, Tellum, Sonrai fighting among each other.”

  Jake Armstrong said, “That’s not my big worry. I’m afraid some ambitious lad will come along and supply what these people evidently want.”

  “How’s that?” Cliff said.

  “They want a leader. Someone to come out of the wilderness and lead them to the promised land.” The older man grumbled sourly. “All your life you figure you’re in favor of democracy. You devote your career to expanding it. Then you come to a place like North Africa. You’re just kidding yourself. Democracy is meaningless here. They haven’t got to the point where they can conceive of it.”

  “And—” Elmer Allen prodded.

  Jake Armstrong shrugged. “When it comes to governments and social institutions people usually come up with what they want, sooner or later. If those mobs down there want a leader, they’ll probably wind up with one.” He grunted deprecation. “And then probably we’ll be able to say, heaven help them.”

  Isobel puckered her lips. “A leader isn’t necessarily a misleader, Jake.”

  “Perhaps not necessarily,” he said. “However, it’s an indication of how far back these people are, how much work we’ve still got to do, when that’s what they’re seeking.”

  “Well, I’m landing,” Cliff said. “The airport looks free of any kind of manifestations.”

  “That’s a good word,” Abe said. “Manifestations. Like, I’ll have to remember that one. Man’s been to school and all that jazz.”

  Cliff grinned at him. “Where’d you like to get socked, beatnik?”

  “About two feet above my head,” Abe said earnestly.

  The aircraft had hardly come to a halt before Homer Crawford clipped out, “All right, boys, time’s a wasting. Bey, you and Kenny get over to those administration buildings and scare us up some transportation. Use no more pressure than you have to. Abe, you and Elmer start getting our equipment out of the luggage…”

  Jake Armstrong said suddenly, “Look here, Homer, do you need any help?”

  Crawford looked at him questioningly.

  Jake said, “Isobel, Cliff, what do you think?”

  Isobel said quickly, “I’m game. I don’t know what they’ll say back at AFAA headquarters, though. Our cooperating with a Sahara Development Project team.”

  Cliff scowled. “I don’t know. Frankly, I took this job purely for the dough, and as outlined it didn’t include get roughed up in some riot that doesn’t actually concern the job.”

  “Oh, come along, Cliff,” Isobel urged. “It’ll give you some experience you don’t know when you’ll be able to use.”

  He shrugged his acceptance grudgingly.

  Jake Armstrong looked back at Homer Crawford. “If you need us, we’re available.”

  “Thanks,” Crawford said briefly, and turned off the unhappy stare he’d been giving Cliff. “We can use all the manpower we can get. You people ever worked with mobs before?”

  Bey and Kenny climbed from the plane and made their way at a trot toward the airport’s administration buildings. Abe and Elmer climbed out, too, and opened the baggage compartment in the rear of the aircraft. “Well, no,” Jake Armstrong said.

  “It’s quite a technique. Mostly you have to play it by ear, because nothing is so changeable as the temper of a mob. Always keep in mind that to begin with, at least, only a small fraction of the crowd is really involved in what’s going on. Possibly only one out of ten is interested in the issue. The rest start off, at least, as idle observers, watching the fun. That’s one of the first things you’ve got to control. Don’t let the innocent bystanders become excited and get into the spirit of it all. Once they do, then you’ve got a mess on your hands.”

  Isobel, Jake and Cliff listened to him in fascination. Cliff said uncomfortably, “Well, what do we do to get the whole thing back to tranquillity? What I mean is, how do we end these demonstrations?”

  “We bore them to tears,” Homer growled. They looked at him blankly.

  “We assume leadership of the whole thing and put up speakers.”

  Jake protested, “You sound as though you’re sustaining, not placating it.”

  “We put up speakers and they speak and speak, and speak. It’s almost like a filibuster. You don’t say anything particularly interesting, and certainly nothing exciting. You agree with the basic feeling of the demonstrating mob, certainly you say nothing to antagonize them. In this case we speak in favor of El Hassan and his great, and noble, and inspiring, and so on and so forth, teachings. We speak in not too loud a voice, so that those in the rear have a hard time hearing, if they can hear at all.”

  Cliff said worriedly, “Suppose some of the hotheads get tired of this and try to take over?”

  Homer said evenly, “We have a couple of bully boys in the crowd to take care of them.”

  Jake twisted his mouth, in objection. “Might that not strike the spark that would start up violence?”

  Homer Crawford grinned and began climbing out of the plane. “Not with the weapons we use.”

  “Weapons!” Isobel snapped. “Do you intend to use weapons on those poor people? Why, it was you yourself, you and your team, who started this whole El Hassan movement. I’m shocked. I’ve heard about your reputation, you and the Sahara Development Project teams. Your ruthlessness…”

  Crawford chuckled ruefully and held up a hand to stem the tide. “Hold it, hold it,” he said. “These are special weapons, and, after all, we’ve got to keep those crowds together long enough to bore them to the point where they go home.”

  Abe came up with an armful of what looked something like tentpoles. “The quarterstaffs, eh, Homer?”

  “Um-m-m,” Crawford said. “Under the circumstances.”

  “Quarterstaffs?” Cliff Jackson ejaculated.

  Abe grinned at him. “Man, just call them pilgrim’s staffs. The least obnoxious looking weapon in the world.” He looked at Cliff and Jake. “You two cats been checked out on quarterstaffs?”

  Jake said, “The more I talk to you people, the less I seem to understand what’s going o
n. Aren’t quarterstaffs what, well, Robin Hood and his Meffy Men used to fight with?”

  “That’s right,” Homer said. He took one from Abe and, grasping it expertly with two hands, whirled it about, getting its balance. Then suddenly he drooped, leaning on it as a staff. His face expressed weariness. His youth and virility seemed to drop away and suddenly he was an aged religious pilgrim as seen throughout the Moslem world.

  “I’ll be damned,” Cliff blurted. “Oop, sorry Isobel.”

  “I’ll be damned, too,” Isobel said. “What in the world can you do with that, Homer? I was thinking in terms of you mowing those people down with machine guns or something.”

  Crawford stood erect again laughingly, and demonstrated. “It’s probably the most efficient handweapon ever devised. The weapon of the British yeoman. With one of these you can disarm a swordsman in a matter of seconds. A good man with a quarterstaff can unhorse a knight in armor and batter him to death, in a minute or so. The only other handweapon capable of countering it is another quarterstaff. Watch this; with the favorable two-hand leverage the ends of the staff can be made to move at invisibly high speeds.”

  Bey and Kenny drove up in an aged wheeled truck and Abe and Elmer began loading equipment.

  Crawford looked at Bey who said apologetically, “I had to liberate it. Didn’t have time for all the dickering the guy wanted to go through.”

  Crawford grunted and looked at Isobel. “Those European clothes won’t do. We’ve got some spare things along. You can improvise. Men and women’s clothes don’t differ that much around here.”

  “I’ll make out all right,” Isobel said. “I can change in the plane.”

  “Hey, Isobel,” Abe called out. “Why not dress up like one of these Dogan babes?”

  “Some chance,” Isobel hissed menacingly at him. “A strip tease you want, yet. You’ll see me in a haik and like it, wise guy.”

  “Shucks,” Abe grinned.

  Crawford looked critically at the clothing of Jake and Cliff. “I suppose you’ll do in western stuff,” he said. “After all, this El Hassan is supposed to be the voice of the future. A lot of his potential followers will already be wearing shirts and pants. Don’t look too civilized, though.”

  When Isobel returned, Crawford briefed his seven followers. They were to operate in teams of two. One of his men, complete with quarterstaff, would accompany each of the others. Abe with Jake, Bey with Cliff, and he’d be with Isobel. Elmer and Kenny would be the other twosome, and, both armed with quarterstaffs would be troubleshooters.

  “We’re playing it off the cuff,” he said. “Do what comes naturally to get this thing under control. If you run into each other, cooperate, of course. If there’s trouble, use your wrist radios.” He looked at Abe and Bey. “I know you two are packing guns underneath those gandouras. I hope you know enough not to use them.”

  Abe and Bey looked innocent.

  Homer turned and led the way into the truck. “O.K., let’s get going.”

  VII

  Driving into town over the dusty, pocked road, Homer gave the newcomers to his group more background on the care and control of the genus mob. He was obviously speaking through considerable experience.

  “Using these quarterstaffs brings to mind some of the other supposedly innocuous devices used by police authorities in controlling unruly demonstrations,” he said. “Some of them are beauties. For instance, I was in Tangier when the Moroccans put on their revolution against the French and for the return of the Sultan. The rumor went through town that the mob was going to storm the French Consulate the next day. During the night, the French brought in elements of the Foreign Legion and entrenched the consulate grounds. But their commander had another problem. Journalists were all over town and so were tourists. Tangier was still supposedly an international zone and the French were in no position to slaughter the citizens. So they brought in some special equipment. One item was a vehicle that looked quite a bit like a gasoline truck, but was filled with water and armored against thrown cobblestones and such. On the roof of the cabin was what looked something like a fifty caliber but which was actually a hose which shot water at terrific pressure. When the mob came, the French unlimbered this vehicle and all the journalists could say was that the mob was dispersed by squirting water on it, which doesn’t sound too bad after all.”

  Isobel said, “Well, certainly that’s preferable to firing on them.”

  Homer looked at her oddly. “Possibly. However, I was standing next to the Moorish boy who was cut entirely in half by the pressure spray of water.”

  The expression on the girl’s face sickened.

  Homer said, “They had another interesting device for dispersing mobs. It was a noise bomb. The French set off several.”

  “A noise bomb?” Cliff said. “I don’t get it.”

  “They make a tremendous noise, but do nothing else. However, members of the mob who aren’t really too interested in the whole thing—just sort of along for the fun—figure that things are getting earnest and that remember some business they had elsewhere and take off.”

  Isobel said suddenly, “You like this sort of work, don’t you?”

  Elmer Allen grunted bitterly.

  “No,” Homer Crawford said flatly. “I don’t. But I like the goal.”

  “And the end justifies the means?”

  Homer Crawford said slowly, “I’ve never answered that to my own satisfaction. But I’ll say this. I’ve never met a person, no matter how idealistic, no matter how much he played lip service to the contention that the ends do not justify the means, who did not himself use the means he found available to reach the ends he believed correct. It seems to be a matter of each man feeling the teaching applies to everyone else, but that he is free to utilize any means to achieve his own noble ends.”

  “Man, all that jazz is too much for me,” Abe said.

  They were entering the outskirts of Mopti. Small groups of obviously excited Africans of various tribal groups were heading for the center of town.

  “Abe, Jake,” Crawford said. “We’ll drop you here. Mingle around. We’ll hold the big meeting in front of the Great Mosque in an hour or so.”

  “Crazy,” Abe said, dropping off the back of the truck which Kenny Ballalou, who was driving, brought almost to a complete stop. The older Jake followed him.

  The rest went on a quarter of a mile and dropped Bey and Cliff.

  Homer said to Kenny, “Park the truck somewhere near the spice market. Preferably inside some building, if you can. For all we know, they’re already turning over vehicles and burning them.”

  Crawford and Isobel dropped off near the pottery market, on the banks of the Niger. The milling throngs here were largely women. Elements of half a dozen tribes and races were represented.

  Homer Crawford stood a moment. He ran a hand back over his short hair and looked at her. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Now I’m sorry we brought you along.” He leaned on his staff and looked at her worriedly. “You’re not very… ah, husky, are you?”

  She laughed at him. “Get about your business, sir knight. I spent nearly two weeks living with these people once. I know dozens of them by name. Watch this cat operate, as Abe would say.”

  She darted to one of the overturned pirogues which had been dragged up on the bank from the river, and climbed atop it. She held her hands high and began a stream of what was gibberish to Crawford who didn’t understand Wolof, the Senegalese lingua franca. Some elements of the crowd began drifting in her direction. She spoke for a few moments; the only words the surprised Homer Crawford could make out were El Hassan. And she used them often.

  She switched suddenly to Arabic, and he could follow her now. The drift of her talk was that word had come through that El Hassan was to make a great announcement in the near future and that meanwhile all his people were to await his word. But that there was to be a great meeting before the Mosque within the hour.

  She switched again to Songhoi and repeated su
bstantially what she’d said before. By now she had every woman hanging on her words.

  A man on the outskirts of the gathering called out in high irritation, “But what of the storming of the administration buildings? Our leaders have proclaimed the storming of the reactionaries!”

  Crawford, leaning heavily on the pilgrim staff, drifted over to the other. “Quiet, O young one,” he said. “I wish to listen to the words of the girl who tells of the teachings of the great El Hassan.”

  The other turned angrily on him. “Be silent thyself, old man!” He raised a hand as though to cuff the American.

  Homer Crawford neatly rapped him on the right shin bone with his quarterstaff to the other’s intense agony. The women who witnessed the brief spat dissolved in laughter at the plight of the younger man. Homer Crawford drifted away again before the heckler recovered.

  He let Isobel handle the bulk of the reverse-rabble rousing. His bit was to come later, and as yet he didn’t want to reveal himself to the throngs.

  They went from one gathering place of women to another. To the spice market, to the fish and meat market, to the bathing and laundering locations along the river. And everywhere they found animated groups of women, Isobel went into her speech.

  At one point, while Homer stood idly in the crowd, feeling its temper and the extent to which the girl was dominating them, he felt someone press next to him.

  A voice said, “What is the plan of operation, Yank?”

  Homer Crawford’s eyebrows went up and he shot a quick glance at the other. It was Rex Donaldson of the Commonwealth African Department, the operative who worked as the witchman, Dolo Anah. Crawford was glad to see him. This was Donaldson’s area of operations; the man must have got here almost as soon as Crawford’s team, when he had heard of the trouble.