The South African was staring at Homer Crawford.
Cliff Jackson cleared his throat. "It seems as though El Hassan has just acquired a Department of Health."
"El Hassan?" Smythe stuttered. "What, what?"
Isobel said softly, "Dr. Smythe, surely you have heard of El Hassan."
"Heard of him? I've heard of nothing else for the past month! Confounded ignorant barbarian. What this part of the world needs is less intertribal, interracial, international fighting, not more. The man's a raving lunatic and—"
Isobel said gently, "Doctor ... may I introduce you to El Hassan?"
"What ... what—?" For the briefest of moments, there was an element of timorness in the sputtering doctor's voice. Then suddenly he comprehended.
He pointed at Homer Crawford accusingly. "You're El Hassan!"
Homer nodded, seriously, "That's correct, Doctor."
The doctor's eyes went around the four of them. "You've done what you were driving at there at that meeting in Timbuktu. You're trying to unite these people in spite of themselves and then drag them, willy-nilly, into the twentieth century."