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 shade of the tent's interior, Isobel clucked at him and hurried to get a drink of water from a moist water cooler. Homer Crawford motioned the other to a seat, and took one himself. "Now then, Dr. Smythe."
The indignant medic blurted, "Those confounded bandits out there—"
"Irregular camel cavalry," Crawford amended gently.
"They've kidnapped me and my staff. I demand that you intercede, if you have any influence with them."
"What were you doing?" Crawford was frowning at the other. Actually, he had no idea of the circumstances under which the probably overenthusiastic Tuareg troopers had rounded up the American medical man.
"Doing? You know perfectly well I represent the American Medical Relief. My team has been in the vicinity of Silet, working with the nomads. The country is rife with everything from rickets to syphilis! Eighty per cent of these people suffer from trachoma. My team—"
"Just a moment," Moroka said. "You mean out in those two trucks you have a complete American medical setup? Assistants and all?"
Smythe said stiffly, "I have two American nurses with me and four Algerians recruited in Oran. This sort of interference with my work is insufferable and—"