ing with his
head for Kenny and Cliff to come along. "You're El Hassan and can't be
risked."

"I'm coming," Homer said flatly. "It's about time El Hassan began
taking some of the same risks his followers seem to be willing to
face. Besides, the men will fight better with me out in front. Got a
gun, Fred?"

Ostrander said, "No. Where am I issued one?"

"I'll show you," Homer said, stuffing extra clips in his bush jacket
pockets. "Come on, Dave."

The whole group began heading for the open air, Bey already yelling
orders.

Fredric Ostrander looked at Dave Moroka. "Strange bedfellows," he
said.

Moroka grinned wryly. "My long view hasn't changed," he said. "It's
just that this African matter takes precedence right now."

"Nor mine, of course," Ostrander said. He cleared his throat.
"However, I hope you last out the night. El Hassan needs strong men."

"Same to you," Moroka said gruffly. "Let's get going, or the fight
will be over while we hand each other flowers."

_Epilogue_

El Hassan stood in the smoking, war-wasted ruin of Fort Laperine, his
mind empty. The body of Jack Peters was ten feet to his left, burned
beyond recognition and crumpled over a flame thrower which he'd
eliminated in the last few moments of the fighting. Had he let his
eyes go out the gun port before which he stood, it might have been
possible for El Hassan to have picked out the bodies of David Moroka
and Fredric Ostrander amidst those of the several hundred Haratin
serfs who had swarmed out of the souk area at the crucial moment and
stormed the half manned fort--unarmed save for knives and farm
implements.

To his right, Dr. Warren Harding Smythe supervised two Tuareg who were
carrying off the broken body of Kenny Ballalou; there was still faint
life in it.

The doctor looked at him. "You are satisfied, I assume?"

El Hassan failed to hear him.

Smythe turned and stomped off, following his impressed nurses.

In the distance, Bey-ag-Akhamouk called hoarse orders from an
over-strained throat, placing guns for a counterattack that would
never come. The Arab Legion was broken and Colonel Ibrahim a prisoner.
Large numbers of the survivors were defecting to the banner of El
Hassan.

He threw his empty Tommy-Noiseless to the side. All he wanted now was
sleep, the surcease of a few hours of oblivion.

Isobel, her face wan from the horror of the agony of the combat whose
result was everywhere visible, was picking her way through t