s he did so. "No,"
he said. "It's a king-size rumor campaign and it's amazing how effective
they can be. Remember the original dirty-rumor campaigns back in the
States? Suppose two laundry firms were competing. One of them, with a
manager on the conscience-less side, would hire two or three
professional rumor spreaders. They'd go around dropping into bars,
barber shops, pool rooms. Sooner or later, they'd get a chance to drop
some line such as _did you hear about them discovering that two lepers
worked at the Royal Laundry_? You can imagine the barbers, the
bartenders, and such professional gossips, passing on the good word."

Isobel laughed, but unhappily. "I don't recognize myself in the
description."

Cliff said earnestly, "Sure, only few score women in each town you put
on your act, really witness the whole thing. But think how they pass it
on. Each one of them tells the story of the miracle. A waif comes out of
the desert. Without property, without a husband or family, without
kinsfolk. Shy, dirty, unwanted. Then she's offered a good position if
she'll drop the veil, discard the haik, and attend the new schools. So
off she goes--everyone thinking to her disaster. Hocus-pocus, six months
later she returns, obviously prosperous, obviously healthy, obviously
well adjusted. Fine. The story spreads for miles around. Nothing is so
popular as the Cinderella story, and that's the story you're putting
over. It's a natural."

"I hope so," Isobel said. "Sometimes I think I'm helping put over a
gigantic hoax on these people. Promising something that won't be
delivered."

Jake looked at her unhappily. "I've thought the same thing, sometimes,
but what are you going to be with people at this stage of
development--_subtle_?"

Isobel dropped it. She held out her glass for more cognac. "I hope
there's something decent to eat in this place. Do you realize what I've
been putting into my tummy this past week?"

Cliff shuddered.

Isobel patted her abdomen. "At least it keeps my figure in trim."

"Um-m-m," Jake pretended to leer heavily.

Isobel chuckled at him in a return to good humor. "Hyena," she accused.

"Hyena?" Jake said.

"Sure, there aren't any wolves in these parts," she explained. "How long
are we going to be here?"

The two men looked at each other. Cliff said, "Well, we'd like to finish
out the week. Guy named Homer Crawford has been passing around the word
to hold a meeting in Timbuktu the end of this week.