ean it to be. Have you ever
been on a camel curd diet?"

"Yes, I have," Moroka said impatiently. He turned back to Homer
Crawford. "How about waylaying an armored car or so, just in the way
of giving the men something exciting to do?"

Crawford ran a hand back through his short hair. "Confound it, Dave,
can you picture what a Recoilless-Brenn gun would do to a harka of our
charging camelmen? We can't let these people be butchered."

"I wasn't thinking of wild charges," Moroka argued.

They had both turned away from Isobel, in their discussion. Now she
looked at them, strangely. And especially at Homer Crawford. His
brusqueness toward her didn't seem the old Homer.

* * * * *

There was a bustle from outside and a guardsman stuck his head in the
tent entrance and reported in Tamaheq that a small camel patrol
approached.

The four of them went out. Coming up were a dozen Tuareg and two motor
vehicles.

Cliff said, "Something new."

Moroka said, "We can use the transport."

"Let's see who they are, before we start requisitioning their
property," Homer said dryly.

The two desert trucks had hardly come to a halt before the camouflaged
tents and hover-lorries of El Hassan's small encampment before a
heavy-set, gray haired Negro, whose energy belied his weight, bounced
down from the seat adjacent to the driver's in the lead vehicle and
stomped belligerently to the group before the tent.

"What is the meaning of this?" he snapped.

Homer Crawford looked at him. "I'm sure I don't know as yet, Dr.
Smythe. Neither you nor these followers of mine have informed me as to
what has transpired. Won't you enter my quarters here and we'll go
into it under more comfortable conditions?" He glanced upward at the
midday Saharan sun.

The other seemed taken aback at Crawford calling him by name. He
squinted at the man who was seemingly his captor.

"Crawford!" he snapped. "Dr. Homer Crawford! See here, what is the
meaning of this?"

Homer said, "Dr. Warren Harding Smythe, may I present Isobel
Cunningham, Clifford Jackson and David Moroka, of my staff?"

"Huuump. I met Miss Cunningham and, I believe, Mr. Jackson at that
ridiculous meeting in Timbuktu, a short time ago." The doctor peered
over his glasses at Moroka.

The wiry South African nodded his head. "A pleasure, Doctor." He held
open the tent entrance.

Smythe snorted again and stomped inside to escape the sun's glare.

In the sh