She licked the side of her mouth, a disconcerting characteristic of hers, and looked at him archly. "Those pals of yours have quite a bit on the ball on their own. They decided that there was a fairly good chance that Sven Zetterberg wasn't exactly going to fall into your arms, so they took preliminary measures. Kenny Ballalou rented a small house, here in the native quarter. We've all rendezvoused there. See, you aren't the only one on the ball." Homer frowned at her, for the moment being in no mood for humor. "What was the idea of sitting here for the past five minutes without even speaking? You must have recognized me, knowing what to look for." She nodded. "I ... I wasn't sure, Homer, but I had the darnedest feeling I was being followed." His glance was sharp now. First at her, then a quick darting around the vicinity. "Woman's intuition," he snapped, "or something substantial?" She frowned at him. "I'm not a ninny, Homer." His voice softened and he said quickly, "Don't misunderstand, Isobel. I know that." She forgot about her objection to his tone. "Even intuition doesn't come out of a clear sky. Something sparks it. Subconscious psi, possibly, but a spark." "However?" he prodded. "I took all precautions. I can't seem to put my finger on anything." "O.K.," he said decisively. "Let's go then." He came to his feet and reached a hand down for her. "Heavens to Betsy," she said, "don't do that." "What?" "Help a woman in public. You'll look suspicious." She came to her own feet, without aid. _Damn_, he thought. She was right. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to a man who acted peculiarly. * * * * * They made their way out of the food market and into the _souk_ proper, Homer walking three or four paces ahead of her, Isobel demurely behind, her eyes on the ground. They passed the native stands and tiny shops, and the even smaller venders and hucksters with their products of the mass production industries of East and West, side by side with the native handicrafts ranging from carved wooden statues, jewelry, _gris gris_ charms and kambu fetishes, to ceramics whose designs went back to an age before the Portuguese first cruised off this coast. And everywhere was color; there are no people on earth more color conscious than the Senegalese. Isobel guided him, her voice quiet and still maintaining its uncharacteristic demure quality. He would never have recognized Isobel, Homer Crawford told himself. Isobel Cunningham, late of Columbia University where she'd taken her Master's in anthropology. Isobel Cunningham, whom he had told on their first meeting that she looked like the former singing star, Lena Horne. Isobel Cunningham, slight of build, pixie of face, crisply modern American with her tongue and wit. Was he in love with her? He didn't know. El Hassan had no time, at present, for those things love implied.