The Adventures of Homer Crawford (Illustrated Edition). Mack Reynolds

decisively. "And I have come to arrest you and take you to Columb-Béchar where you will be tried for your participation in recent raids on various development projects."

      El Aicha repeated his earlier words. "There shall be no violence at a djemaa el kebar."

      The Ouled Touameur chief's eyes had narrowed. "You are not strong enough to take me."

       * * * * *

      In English, Abe Baker said, "Like maybe these young followers of this cat need an example laid on them, man."

      "I'm afraid you're right," Crawford growled disgustedly.

      The younger American came to his feet. "I'll take him on," Abe said.

      "No, he's nearer to my size," Crawford grunted. He turned to El Aicha, and said in Arabic, "I demand the right of a stranger in your camp to a trial by combat."

      "On what grounds?" the old man scowled.

      "That my manhood has been spat upon by this warrior who does his fighting with his loud mouth."

      The assembled chiefs looked to Abd-el-Kader, and a rustling sigh went through them. A hundred times the wiry desert chieftain had proven himself the most capable fighter in the tribes. A hundred times he had proven it and there were dead and wounded in the path he had cut for himself.

      Abd-el-Kader laughed aloud again. "Swords, in the open before the ascan."

      Homer Crawford shrugged. "Swords, in the open before the assembled Chaambra so that they may see how truly weak is the one who calls himself so strong."

      Abe said worriedly, in English, "Listen, man, you been checked out on swords?"

      "They're the traditional weapon in the Arab code duello," Homer said, with a wry grin. "Nothing else would do."

      "Man, you sound like you've been blasting pot and got yourself as high as those cats out there with their kif. This Abd-el-Kader was probably raised with a sword in his hand."

      Abd-el-Kader smiling triumphantly, had spun on his heel and made his way through the tent's entrance. Now they could hear him shouting orders.

      El Aicha looked up at Homer Crawford from where he sat. His voice without inflection, he said, "Hast thou a sword, Omar ben Crawf?"

      "No," Crawford said.

      The elderly tribal leader said, "Then I shall loan you mine." He hesitated momentarily, before adding, "Never before has hand other than mine wielded it." And finally, simply, "Never has it been drawn to commit dishonor."

      "I am honored."

      Outside, the rumors had spread fast and already a great arena was forming by the packed lines of Chaambra nomads. At the tent entrance, Elmer Allen, his face worried, said, his English in characteristic Jamaican accent, "What did you chaps do?"

      "Duel," Abe growled apprehensively. "This joker here has challenged their top swordsman to a fight."

      Elmer said hurriedly, "See here, gentlemen, the hovercraft are parked over behind that tent. We can be there in two minutes and away from—"

      Crawford's eyes went from Elmer Allen to Abe Baker and then back again. He chuckled, "I don't think you two think I'm going to win this fight," he said.

      "What do you know about swordsmanship?" Elmer Allen said accusingly.

      "Practically nothing. A little bayonet practice quite a few years ago."

      "Oh, great," Abe muttered.

      Elmer said hurriedly, "See here, Homer, I was on the college fencing team and—"

      Crawford grinned at him. "Too late, friend."

      As they talked, they made their way to the large circle of men. In its center, Abd-el-Kader was stripping to his waist, meanwhile laughingly shouting his confidence to his Ouled Touameur tribesmen and to the other Chaambra of fighting age. No one seemed to doubt the final issue. Beneath his white burnoose he wore a gandoura of lightweight woolen cloth and beneath that a longish undershirt of white cotton, similar to that of the Tuareg but with shorter and less voluminous sleeves. This the desert fighter retained.

      Crawford stripped down too, nude to the waist. His body was in excellent trim, muscles bunching under the ebony skin. A Haratin servant came up bearing El Aicha's sword.

      Homer Crawford pulled it from the scabbard. It was of scimitar type, the weapon which had once conquered half the known world.

      From within the huge circle of men, Abd-el-Kader swung his own blade in flashing arcs and called out something undoubtedly insulting, but which was lost in the babble of the multitude.

      "Well, here we go," Crawford grunted. "You fellows better station yourselves around just on the off chance that those Ouled Touameur bully-boys don't like the decision."

      "We'll worry about that," Abe said unhappily. "You just see you get out of this in one piece. Anything happens to you and the head office'll make me head of this team—and frankly, man I don't want the job."

      Homer grinned at him, and began pushing his way through to the center.

       * * * * *

      The Arab cut a last switch in the air, with his whistling blade and started forward, in practiced posture. Homer awaited him, legs spread slightly, his hands extended slightly, the sword held at the ready but with point low.

      Abe Baker growled, unhappily, "He said he didn't know anything about the swords, and the way he holds it bears him out. That Arab'll cut Homer to ribbons. Maybe we ought to do something about it." As usual, under stress, he'd dropped his beatnik patter.

      Elmer Allen looked at him. "Such as what? There are at least three thousand of these tribesmen chaps here watching their favorite sport. What did you have in mind doing?"

      Abd-el-Kader hadn't remained the victor of a score of similar duels through making such mistakes as underestimating his foe. In spite of the black stranger's seeming ignorance of his weapon, the Arab had no intention of being sucked into a trap. He advanced with care.

      His sword darted forward, quickly, experimentally, and Homer Crawford barely caught its razor edge on his own.

      Save for his own four companions, the crowd laughed aloud. None among them were so clumsy as this.

      The Ouled Touameur chief was convinced. He stepped in fast, the blade flicked in and out in a quick feint, then flicked in again. Homer Crawford countered clumsily.

      And then there was a roar as the American's blade left his hand and flew high in the air to come to the ground again a score of feet behind the desert swordsman.

      For a brief moment Abd-el-Kader stepped back to observe his foe, and there was mockery in his face. "So thy manhood has been spat upon by one who fights only with his mouth! Almost, braggart, I am inclined to give you your life so that you may spend the rest of it in shame. Now die, unbeliever!"

      Crawford stood hopelessly, in a semicrouch, his hands still slightly forward. The Arab came in fast, his sword at the ready for the death stroke.

      Suddenly, the American moved forward and then jumped a full yard into the air, feet forward and into the belly of the advancing Arab. The heavily shod right foot struck at the point in the abdomen immediately below the sternum, the solar plexus, and the left was as low as the groin. In a motion that was almost a bounce off the other's body, Crawford came lithely back to his feet, jumped back two steps, crouched again.

      But Abd-el-Kader was through, his eyes popping agony, his body writhing on the ground. The whole thing, from the time the Arab had advanced on the disarmed man for the kill, hadn't taken five seconds.

      His groans were the only sounds which broke the unbelieving silence of the Chaambra tribesmen. Homer Crawford picked up the fallen leader's sword and then strolled over and retrieved that of El Aicha. Ignoring Abd-el-Kader, he crossed to where the tribal elders