The Collected Works of Mack Reynolds. Mack Reynolds

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 with 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