We were hardly prepared to
find a beautiful American girl in the Great Erg," he said.

Something about his voice caused her to flush. "We've all caught
Homer's dream," she said, almost defensively.

* * * * *

David Moroka flung to his feet, viper fast, and dashed toward Homer
Crawford, his hands extended.

Automatically, Cliff Jackson stuck forward a foot in an attempt to
trip him--and missed.

The South African, moving with blurring speed, grasped the
unsuspecting Crawford by the right hand and arm, swung with fantastic
speed and sent the American sprawling to the far side of the tent.

Homer Crawford, old in rough and tumble, was already rolling out.
Before the inertia of his fall had given way, his right hand, only a
split second before in the grip of the other, was fumbling for the 9
mm Noiseless holstered at his belt.

Rex Donaldson, a small handgun magically in his hand, was standing,
half crouched on his thin, bent legs. The two brothers from Trinidad
hadn't moved, their eyes bugging.

Moroka was spinning with the momentum of the sudden attack he'd made
on his new chief. Now there was a gun in his own hand and he was
darting for the tent opening.

Cliff yelled indignantly, "Stop him!"

Isobel, on her feet by now, both hands to her mouth, was staring at
the goatskin tent covering, against which, a moment earlier, Crawford
had been gently leaning his back as he talked.

There was a vicious slash in the leather and even as she pointed, the
razor-sharp arm dagger's blade disappeared. There was the sound of
running feet outside the tent.

Homer Crawford had assimilated the situation before the rest. He, too,
was darting for the tent entrance, only feet behind Moroka.

Donaldson followed, muttering bitterly under his breath, his face
twisted more as though in distaste than in fighting anger.

Cliff, too, finally saw light and dashed after the others, leaving
only Isobel and the Peters brothers. They heard the muffled coughing
of a silenced gun, twice, thrice and then half a dozen times, blurting
together in automatic fire.

Homer Crawford shuffled through the sand on an awkward run, rounding
the tent, weapon in hand.

There was a native on the ground making final spasmatic muscular
movements in his death throes, and not more than three feet from him,
coolly, David Moroka sat, bracing his elbows on his knees and aiming,
two-handed, as his gun emptied itself.

Crawfo