The teguelmoust hid the other's blanch.
In the tent, Homer turned to the Bahaman, motioned to what seating arrangements were available.
Isobel said, "I'll get some coffee."
Cliff blurted, "Holy Mackerel, if Donaldson, here, can drop in on us out of a clear sky, what keeps anybody else from doing it? Somebody with a couple of neopalm bombs in the way of calling cards."
The dried up little man grimaced in his equivalent of a grin and said, "Hold it, you chaps. I want to notify the others."
"The others? What others?" Crawford said.
Donaldson ignored him for a moment, unslung the small bag he carried over one shoulder and dipped into it for a tiny, two-way radio. He pressed the buzzer button, then held it up to his mouth. "Jack, Jimmy, Dave. Here we are. Took donkey's years, but I found them. You chaps zero-in here." He left the device on and set it to one side, then yawned and settled himself to the rug-covered ground, crosslegged, Dogon style.
Homer Crawford, even as he sat down himself on a footlocker, in lieu of a chair, rapped, "How did you find us? Who did you just radio? Where'd you come from?"
"I say, hold it," Donaldson chuckled sourly. "First of all, I've come to join up. I thought as far back as that time we co-operated in quelling the riots in Mopti that you ought to do this—proclaim yourself El Hassan. When I heard you'd taken the step, I came to join up."
"Oh, great," Cliff said. "What took you so long? We hardly get here, to our ultra-secret hideout, than here you are."