ed off to inform his fellow tribesmen
of his appointment.

Isobel emerged from her tent. She looked at Homer obliquely, the sides
of her mouth turning down. "As shield on shoulder rides," she
translated from the Tamaheq Berber tongue into English. "Hm-m-m." She
cast her eyes upward in memory. "You aren't plagiarizing Kipling, are
you?"

Crawford grinned at her. "These people like a well turned phrase."

"And who could turn them better than Rudyard?" she said. Her voice
dropped the bantering tone. "What's this bit about making Guemama
war-chief of the Tuareg? Isn't he on the young and enthusiastic
side?"

Cliff scowled. "You mean that youngster? Why he can't be more than in
his early twenties."

Crawford was looking after the young Targui who was disappearing into
his uncle's tent on the far side of the rapidly growing encampment.

"You mean the age of Napoleon in the Italian campaign, or Alexander at
Issus?" he asked. Isobel began to respond to that, but he shook his
head. "He's the Amenokal's nephew, and traditionally would probably
get the position anyway. He's the most popular of the young tribesmen,
and it's going to be they who do the fighting. Having the appointment
come from El Hassan, and at this early point, will just bind him
closer. Besides that, he's a natural born warrior. Typical.
Enthusiastic, bold, brave and with the military mind."

"What's a military mind?" Cliff said.

"He can take off his shirt without unbuttoning his collar," Homer told
him.

"Very funny," Cliff grumbled.

Isobel turned to the big Californian. "What's on the radio, Cliff?"

"Let's go get a cup of coffee," he said. "All hellzapoppin."

* * * * *

They went into the larger of the two Tuareg tents, and Isobel poured
water from a girba into the coffee pot which she placed on a heat
unit, flicking its switch. She said sarcastically, from the side of
her mouth, "A message, O El Hassan, from the Department of Logistics,
subdepartment Commissary of Headquarters of the Commander in Chief.
Unless you get around to capturing some supplies in the near future,
your food is going to be prepared over a camel dung fire. This heat
unit is fading out on me."

"Don't bother me with trivialities," Homer told her. "I've got _big_
things on my mind."

She looked at him suspiciously. "Hm-m-m. Such as what?"

"Such as whether to put my face on the postage stamps profile or
full."

She said, under her b