Crawford leaned forward. "Look here, Doctor. You don't see eye to eye with us on matters socio-economic. However, as a medical man, I submit that joining my group ... ah, that is, until you can secure an exit visa from my authorities ... will give you an excellent opportunity to practice your science here in the Sahara under the wing of El Hassan. I'll assign a place for your trucks and tents. Please consider the question and let me have your answer at your leisure. Meanwhile, we will prepare a desert feast suitable to the high esteem in which we hold you." * * * * * They looked after the doctor, as he left, and Moroka chuckled. However, Isobel was watching Homer Crawford quizzically. She said finally, "We rode over him a little in the roughshod manner, didn't we?" Homer Crawford growled uncomfortably, "Particularly when we finally have our showdown with the Arab Legion, a medic will be priceless." Isobel said softly, "And the end justifies the means--" Homer shot a quick, impatient look at her. "The good doctor and his people are in the Sahara to work with the Tuareg and the Teda and the rest of the bedouin. Beyond that, he has the same dream we have--of developing this continent of our racial background." "But he doesn't believe in your methods, Homer, and we're forcing him to follow El Hassan's road in spite of his beliefs." Moroka had been peering at the two of them narrowly. "You don't make omelets without breaking eggs," he said, his voice on the overbearing side. She spun on him. "But the omelets don't turn out so well if some of the eggs you use are rotten." The South African's voice turned gentle. "Miss Cunningham," he said, "working in the field, like this, can have its rugged side for a young and delicate woman--" "_Delicate!_" she snapped. "I'll have you know--" "Hey, everybody, hold it," Cliff injected. "What goes on?" Dave Moroka shrugged. "It just seems to me that Isobel might do better back in Dakar, or in New York with your friend Jake Armstrong. Somewhere where her sensibilities wouldn't be so bruised, and where her assets"--his eyes went up and down her lithe body--"could be put to better use." Isobel's sepia face had gone a shade or more lighter. She said, very flatly, "My assets, Mr. Moroka, are in my head." Homer Crawford said disgustedly, "O.K., O.K., let's all knock it off." His eyes flicked back and forth between them, in definite command. "I don't want to hear any more in the way of personalities between you two." Moroka shrugged again. "Yes, sir," he said without inflection. Isobel turned away and took up some paperwork, without further words. She suppressed her feeling of seething indignation. Homer Crawford, under his pressures, was changing. Possibly, she had told herself before, it was change for the better. The need was for a _strong_ man, perhaps even a ruthless one.