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“The task of the Afforestation Project is to return the Sahara to the fertile land it once was. The job is a gargantuan one, but ultimately quite possible. Here in the south we are damming the Niger, running our irrigation projects farther and farther north. From the Mauritania area on the Atlantic we are pressing inland, using water purification and solar pumps to utilize the ocean. In the mountains of Morocco, the water available is being utilized more efficiently than ever before, the sands being pushed back. We are all familiar with Egypt’s ever increasingly successful efforts to exploit the Nile. In the Sahara itself, the new solar pumps are utilizing wells to an extent never dreamed of before. The oases are increasing in a geometric progression both in number and in size.” He was caught up in his own enthusiasm.

Crawford said, interestedly, “It’s a fascinating project. How long do you estimate it will be before the job is done?”

“Perhaps a century. As the trees go in by the tens of millions, there will be a change in climate. Forest begets moisture, which in turn allows for more forest.” He turned back to the audience as a whole. “In time we will be able to farm these million upon million of acres of fertile land. First it must go into forest, then we can return to field agriculture when climate and soil have been restored. This is our prime task. This is our basic need. I call upon all of you for your support and that of your organizations if you can bring their attention to the great need. The tasks you have set yourselves are meaningless in the face of this greater one. Let us be practical.”

“Crazy, man,” Abe Baker said aloud. “Let’s be practical and cut out all this jazz.” The youthful New Yorker came to his feet. “First of all you just mentioned it was going to take a century, even though it’s going like a geometric progression. Geometric progressions get going kind of slow, so I imagine that your scheme for making the Sahara fertile again won’t really be under full steam until more than halfway through that century of yours, and not really ripping ahead until, maybe two thirds of the way. Meanwhile, what’s going to happen?”

“I beg your pardon!” Ralph Sandell said stiffly.

“That’s all right.” Abe Baker grinned at him. “The way they figure, population doubles every thirty years under the present rate of increase. They figure there’ll be three billion in the world by 1990, then by 2020 there would be six billions, and in 2050, twelve billions and twenty-four by the time your century was up. Old boy, I suggest the addition of a Sahara of rich agricultural land a century from now wouldn’t be of much importance.”

“Ridiculous!”

“You mean me, or you?” Abe grinned. “I once read an article by Donald Kingsbury. It’s reprinted these days because it finished off the subject once and for all. He showed with mathematical rigor that given the present rate of human population increase, and an absolutely unlimited technology that allowed instantaneous intergalactical transportation and the ability to convert anything and everything into food, including interstellar dust, stars, planets, everything, it would take only seven thousand years to turn the total mass of the total universe into human flesh!”

The Sahara Afforestation official gaped at him.

The room rocked with laughter.

Irritated, Sandell snapped again, “Ridiculous!”

“It sure is, man,” Abe grinned. “And the point is that the job is educating the people and freeing them to the point where they can develop their potentialities. Educate the African and he will see the same need as the intelligent European, American, or Russian for that matter, to limit our population growth.” He sat down again, and there was a scattering of applause and more laughter.

Sandell, still glowering, took his seat, too.

Homer Crawford, who’d been hard put not to join in the amusement, said, “Thanks to both of you for some interesting points. Now, who’s next? Who else do we have here?”

When no one else answered, a smallish man, dressed in the costume of the Dogon, to the south, came to his feet and to the head of the room.

In a clipped British accent, he said, “Rex Donaldson, of Nassau, the Bahamas, in the service of Her Majesty’s Government and the British Commonwealth. I have no team. Although our tasks are largely similar to those of the African Development Project, we field men of the African Department usually work as individuals. My native pseudonym is usually Dolo Anah.”

He looked out over the rest. “I have no objection to such meetings as this. If nothing else, it gives chaps a bit of an opportunity to air grievances. I personally have several and may as well state them now. Among other things, it becomes increasingly clear that though some of the organizations represented here are supposedly of the Reunited Nations, actually they are dominated by Yankees. The Yankees are seeping in everywhere.” He looked at Isobel. “Yes, such groups as your Africa for Africans Association has high flown slogans, but wherever you go, there go Yankee ideas, Yankee products, Yankee schools.”

Homer Crawford’s eyebrows went up. “What is your solution? The fact is that the United States has a hundred or more times the educated Negroes than any other country.”

Donaldson said, doggedly, “The British Commonwealth has done more than any other element in bringing progress to Africa. She should be given the lead in developing the continent. A good first step would be to make the pound sterling legal tender throughout the continent. And, as things are now, there are some seven hundred different languages, not counting dialects. I suggest that English be made the lingua franca of…”

An excitable type, who had been first to join in the laughter at Sandell, now jumped to his feet. “Un moment, Monsieur! The French Community long dominated a far greater portion of Africa than the British flag flew over. Not to mention that it was the most advanced portion. If any language was to become the lingua franca of all Africa, French would be most suitable. Your ultimate purpose, Mr. Donaldson, is obvious. You and your Commonwealth African Department wish to dominate for political and economic reasons!”

He turned to the others and spread his hands in a Gallic gesture. “I introduce myself, Pierre Dupaine, operative of the African Affairs sector of the French Community.”

“Ha!” Donaldson snorted. “Getting the French out of Africa was like pulling teeth. It took donkey’s years. And now look. This chap wants to bring them back again.”

Crawford was knuckling the table. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he yelled. He finally had them quieted.

Wryly he said, “May I ask if we have a representative from the government of the United States?”

A lithe, inordinately well-dressed young man rose from his seat in the rear of the hall. “Frederic Ostrander, C.I.A.,” he said. “I might as well tell you now, Crawford, and you other American citizens here, this meeting will not meet with the approval of the State Department.”

Crawford’s eyes went up. “How do you know?”

The C.I.A. man said evenly, “We’ve already had reports that this conference was going to be held. I might as well inform you that a protest is being made to the Sahara Division of the African Development Project.”

Crawford said, “I suppose that is your privilege, sir. Now, in accord with the reason for this meeting, can you tell us why your organization is present in Africa and what it hopes to achieve?”

Ostrander looked at him testily. “Why not? There has been considerable infiltration of all of these African development organizations by subversive elements…”

“Oh, Brother,” Cliff Jackson said.