Cliff growled, "I don't know. This dream of yours is growing. Where it might end—I don't know."
As they were talking the cries of Ul-Ul-Ul-Allah Akbar! had broken out again.
"Heavens to Betsy," Isobel said. "Another contingent of camelmen?"
But this time the newcomers were three in number and rode in air cushion hover-lorries, the twins of that used by Homer Crawford.
Rex Donaldson brought them up to the tent, saying, "I didn't think you chaps were quite so close."
Homer, Cliff and Isobel faced the new recruits. The three were dressed in khaki bushshirts, shorts and heavy walking shoes—British style. Two were so obviously relatives that they could have been twins except for an age discrepancy of two or three years. They were smaller in stature than the Americans present, almost chunky, but their faces held education and cultivation. The third was slight of build, almost as wiry as Rex Donaldson, and seemed ever at ease.
The small, bent Bahaman made introductions. "Gentlemen, let me present El Hassan—Homer Crawford to you—formerly of the Reunited Nations African Development Project, formerly of the United States of the Americas." His face twisted in his sour grimace of a grin. "Now running for the office of tyrant of North Africa."
"And these are two of his original and most trusted adherents, Isobel Cunningham and Cliff Jackson." Donaldson turned to the newcomers. "John and James Peters—that's Jack and Jimmy, of course—recently colleagues of mine with the African Department of the Commonwealth, working largely in the Nigeria area."
Homer shook hands, grinning. "You're a long way from home."