There was a bustle from outside and a guardsman stuck his head in the tent entrance and reported in Tamaheq that a small camel patrol approached. The four of them went out. Coming up were a dozen Tuareg and two motor vehicles. Cliff said, "Something new." Moroka said, "We can use the transport." "Let's see who they are, before we start requisitioning their property," Homer said dryly. The two desert trucks had hardly come to a halt before the camouflaged tents and hover-lorries of El Hassan's small encampment before a heavy-set, gray haired Negro, whose energy belied his weight, bounced down from the seat adjacent to the driver's in the lead vehicle and stomped belligerently to the group before the tent. "What is the meaning of this?" he snapped. Homer Crawford looked at him. "I'm sure I don't know as yet, Dr. Smythe. Neither you nor these followers of mine have informed me as to what has transpired. Won't you enter my quarters here and we'll go into it under more comfortable conditions?" He glanced upward at the midday Saharan sun. The other seemed taken aback at Crawford calling him by name. He squinted at the man who was seemingly his captor. "Crawford!" he snapped. "Dr. Homer Crawford! See here, what is the meaning of this?" Homer said, "Dr. Warren Harding Smythe, may I present Isobel Cunningham, Clifford Jackson and David Moroka, of my staff?" "Huuump. I met Miss Cunningham and, I believe, Mr. Jackson at that ridiculous meeting in Timbuktu, a short time ago." The doctor peered over his glasses at Moroka. The wiry South African nodded his head. "A pleasure, Doctor." He held open the tent entrance. Smythe snorted again and stomped inside to escape the sun's glare. In the shade of the tent's interior, Isobel clucked at him and hurried to get a drink of water from a moist water cooler. Homer Crawford motioned the other to a seat, and took one himself. "Now then, Dr. Smythe." The indignant medic blurted, "Those confounded bandits out there--" "Irregular camel cavalry," Crawford amended gently. "They've kidnapped me and my staff. I demand that you intercede, if you have any influence with them." "What were you doing?" Crawford was frowning at the other. Actually, he had no idea of the circumstances under which the probably overenthusiastic Tuareg troopers had rounded up the American medical man. "Doing? You know perfectly well I represent the American Medical Relief. My team has been in the vicinity of Silet, working with the nomads. The country is rife with everything from rickets to syphilis! Eighty per cent of these people suffer from trachoma. My team--" "Just a moment," Moroka said. "You mean out in those two trucks you have a complete American medical setup? Assistants and all?" Smythe said stiffly, "I have two American nurses with me and four Algerians recruited in Oran. This sort of interference with my work is insufferable and--" The South African was staring at Homer Crawford.