Bey said, flatly, “If one of the rest of us gets it, or even if all of us do, the El Hassan movement goes on. But if something happens to you, the movement dies. We’ve already taken our stand and too much is at stake to risk your life.”

Homer Crawford opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. He reached inside the solar-powered lorry, fetched forth a Tommy-Noiseless and started for the rock outcropping at a trot. Having made his decision, he wasn’t going to cramp Bey-ag-Akhamouk’s style with needless palaver.

Isobel Cunningham, Cliff Jackson, Elmer Allen and Kenny Ballalou gathered around the tall, American-educated Tuareg.

“What’s the plan?” Elmer said. Either he or Kenny Ballalou could have taken over as competently, but they were as capable of taking orders as giving them, a desirable trait in fighting men.

Bey was still staring at the oncoming speck. He growled, “We can’t even hope he hasn’t seen the pillars of sand and dust these vehicles throw up. He’s spotted us all right. And we’ve got to figure he’s looking for us, even though we can hope he’s not.”

The side of his mouth began to tic characteristically. “He’ll make three passes. The first one high, as an initial check. The second time he’ll come in low just to make sure. The third pass and he’ll clobber us.”

The aircraft was coming on, high but nearer now.

“So,” Elmer said reasonably, “we either get him the second pass he makes, or we’ve had it.” The young Jamaican’s lips were thinned back over his excellent teeth, as always when he went into combat.

“That’s it,” Bey agreed. “Kenny, you and Cliff get the flac rifle, and have it handy in the back of the second truck. Be sure he doesn’t see it on this first pass. Elmer, get on the radio and check anything he sends.”