pound piece of
unsalted Senegalese bread, torn from a monstrous loaf, and a twisted
piece of newspaper into which had been measured an ounce or so of
coarse salt. He took his meal and went to as secluded a corner as he
could find.

Homer Crawford chuckled inwardly. That morning he had breakfasted in
the most swank hotel in West Africa. He wished there was some manner
in which he could have invited Sven Zetterberg to dine here with him.
Or, come to think of it, a group of the students he had once taught
sociology at the University of Michigan. Or, possibly, prexy
Wallington, under whom he had worked while taking his doctor's degree.

Yes, it would have been interesting to have had a luncheon companion.

A native woman, on the stoutish side but with her hair done up in one
of the fabulously ornate hair styles specialized in by the Senegalese,
and wearing a flowing, shapeless dress of the garish textiles run off
purposely for this market in Japan and Manchester, waddled up to take
a place nearby. She bore a huge skewer of barbequed beef chunks, and a
hunk of bread not unlike Homer's own.

She grumbled uncomfortably, her back to the American, as she settled
into a position on the floor. And she mumbled as she began chewing at
the meat.

_No table manners_, Homer Crawford grinned inwardly. He wondered how
long it would take for the others to get here. He wasn't worried about
Isobel, Cliff Jackson and Jake Armstrong. It would take time before
Zetterberg's Reunited Nations cloak and dagger boys got around to
them, but he wasn't sure that she'd be able to locate his own team in
time. That bit he'd given the Swede official about his being so
bully-bully with the other Reunited Nations teams was in the way of
being an exaggeration, with the idea of throwing the other off.
Actually, working in the field on definite assignments, it was seldom
you ran into other African Development Project men. But perhaps it
would tie Zetterberg up, wondering just who he could trust to send
looking for El Hassan.

He finished off his barbequed goat and the bread and wiped his hands
on his clothes. Nobody here yet. To have an excuse for staying, he
would have to buy a bottle of Gazelle beer, the cheap Senegalese brew
which came in quart bottles and was warm and on the gassy side.

It was then that the woman in front of him, without turning, said
softly, "El Hassan?"

II

Homer Crawford stared at her, unbelievingly. The woman couldn't