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.