Jake twisted his mouth, in objection. “Might that not strike the spark that would start up violence?”
Homer Crawford grinned and began climbing out of the plane. “Not with the weapons we use.”
“Weapons!” Isobel snapped. “Do you intend to use weapons on those poor people? Why, it was you yourself, you and your team, who started this whole El Hassan movement. I’m shocked. I’ve heard about your reputation, you and the Sahara Development Project teams. Your ruthlessness…”
Crawford chuckled ruefully and held up a hand to stem the tide. “Hold it, hold it,” he said. “These are special weapons, and, after all, we’ve got to keep those crowds together long enough to bore them to the point where they go home.”
Abe came up with an armful of what looked something like tentpoles. “The quarterstaffs, eh, Homer?”
“Um-m-m,” Crawford said. “Under the circumstances.”
“Quarterstaffs?” Cliff Jackson ejaculated.
Abe grinned at him. “Man, just call them pilgrim’s staffs. The least obnoxious looking weapon in the world.” He looked at Cliff and Jake. “You two cats been checked out on quarterstaffs?”
Jake said, “The more I talk to you people, the less I seem to understand what’s going on. Aren’t quarterstaffs what, well, Robin Hood and his Meffy Men used to fight with?”
“That’s right,” Homer said. He took one from Abe and, grasping it expertly with two hands, whirled it about, getting its balance. Then suddenly he drooped, leaning on it as a staff. His face expressed weariness. His youth and virility seemed to drop away and suddenly he was an aged religious pilgrim as seen throughout the Moslem world.
“I’ll be damned,” Cliff blurted. “Oop, sorry Isobel.”
“I’ll be damned, too,” Isobel said. “What in the world can you do with that, Homer? I was thinking in terms of you mowing those people down with machine guns or something.”
Crawford stood erect again laughingly, and demonstrated. “It’s probably the most efficient handweapon ever devised. The weapon of the British yeoman. With one of these you can disarm a swordsman in a matter of seconds. A good man with a quarterstaff can unhorse a knight in armor and batter him to death, in a minute or so. The only other handweapon capable of countering it is another quarterstaff. Watch this; with the favorable two-hand leverage the ends of the staff can be made to move at invisibly high speeds.”
Bey and Kenny drove up in an aged wheeled truck and Abe and Elmer began loading equipment.
Crawford looked at Bey who said apologetically, “I had to liberate it. Didn’t have time for all the dickering the guy wanted to go through.”
Crawford grunted and looked at Isobel. “Those European clothes won’t do. We’ve got some spare things along. You can improvise. Men and women’s clothes don’t differ that much around here.”
“I’ll make out all right,” Isobel said. “I can change in the plane.”
“Hey, Isobel,” Abe called out. “Why not dress up like one of these Dogan babes?”
“Some chance,” Isobel hissed menacingly at him. “A strip tease you want, yet. You’ll see me in a haik and like it, wise guy.”
“Shucks,” Abe grinned.
Crawford looked critically at the clothing of Jake and Cliff. “I suppose you’ll do in western stuff,” he said. “After all, this El Hassan is supposed to be the voice of the future. A lot of his potential followers will already be wearing shirts and pants. Don’t look too civilized, though.”
When Isobel returned, Crawford briefed his seven followers. They were to operate in teams of two. One of his men, complete with quarterstaff, would accompany each of the others. Abe with Jake, Bey with Cliff, and he’d be with Isobel. Elmer and Kenny would be the other twosome, and, both armed with quarterstaffs would be troubleshooters.
“We’re playing it off the cuff,” he said. “Do what comes naturally to get this thing under control. If you run into each other, cooperate, of course. If there’s trouble, use your wrist radios.” He looked at Abe and Bey. “I know you two are packing guns underneath those gandouras. I hope you know enough not to use them.”
Abe and Bey looked innocent.
Homer turned and led the way into the truck. “O.K., let’s get going.”
VII
Driving into town over the dusty, pocked road, Homer gave the newcomers to his group more background on the care and control of the genus mob. He was obviously speaking through considerable experience.
“Using these quarterstaffs brings to mind some of the other supposedly innocuous devices used by police authorities in controlling unruly demonstrations,” he said. “Some of them are beauties. For instance, I was in Tangier when the Moroccans put on their revolution against the French and for the return of the Sultan. The rumor went through town that the mob was going to storm the French Consulate the next day. During the night, the French brought in elements of the Foreign Legion and entrenched the consulate grounds. But their commander had another problem. Journalists were all over town and so were tourists. Tangier was still supposedly an international zone and the French were in no position to slaughter the citizens. So they brought in some special equipment. One item was a vehicle that looked quite a bit like a gasoline truck, but was filled with water and armored against thrown cobblestones and such. On the roof of the cabin was what looked something like a fifty caliber but which was actually a hose which shot water at terrific pressure. When the mob came, the French unlimbered this vehicle and all the journalists could say was that the mob was dispersed by squirting water on it, which doesn’t sound too bad after all.”
Isobel said, “Well, certainly that’s preferable to firing on them.”
Homer looked at her oddly. “Possibly. However, I was standing next to the Moorish boy who was cut entirely in half by the pressure spray of water.”
The expression on the girl’s face sickened.
Homer said, “They had another interesting device for dispersing mobs. It was a noise bomb. The French set off several.”
“A noise bomb?” Cliff said. “I don’t get it.”
“They make a tremendous noise, but do nothing else. However, members of the mob who aren’t really too interested in the whole thing—just sort of along for the fun—figure that things are getting earnest and that remember some business they had elsewhere and take off.”
Isobel said suddenly, “You like this sort of work, don’t you?”
Elmer Allen grunted bitterly.
“No,” Homer Crawford said flatly. “I don’t. But I like the goal.”
“And the end justifies the means?”
Homer Crawford said slowly, “I’ve never answered that to my own satisfaction. But I’ll say this. I’ve never met a person, no matter how idealistic, no matter how much he played lip service to the contention that the ends do not justify the means, who did not himself use the means he found available to reach the ends he believed correct. It seems to be a matter of each man feeling the teaching applies to everyone else, but that he is free to utilize any means to achieve his own noble ends.”
“Man, all that jazz is too much for me,” Abe said.
They were entering the outskirts of Mopti. Small groups of obviously excited Africans of various tribal groups were heading for the center of town.
“Abe, Jake,” Crawford said. “We’ll drop you here. Mingle around. We’ll hold the big meeting in front of the Great Mosque in an hour or so.”
“Crazy,” Abe said, dropping off the back of the truck which Kenny Ballalou, who was driving, brought almost to a complete stop. The older Jake followed him.