Derek punched a hole in his beer can with the opener that hung from the
refrigerator by a string. "I didn't go low enough to check. You can
never tell with a Tuareg. They can't resist as beautiful a target as a
helicopter, and one of these days one of them is going to make a hole
in me, instead of in the fuselage or rotors."
Johnny McCord, furious, plunked himself down before the telephone and
dialed Tessalit, 275 kilometers to the south. The girl on the desk
there grinned at him and said, "Hello, Johnny."
Johnny McCord was in no mood for pleasantries. He snapped, "Who's
supposed to be on Bedouin patrol down there?"
She blinked at him. "Why, Mohammed is in command of patrolling this
area, Mr. McCord."
"Mohammed? Mohammed who? Eighty percent of these Malians are named
Mohammed."
"Captain Mohammed Mohmoud ould Cheikh." She added, unnecessarily, "The
Cadi's son."
Johnny grunted. He'd always suspected that the captain had got his
ideas of what a cadi's son should be like from seeing Hollywood movies.
"Look, Kate," he said. "Let me talk to Mellor, will you?"
Her face faded to be replaced by that of a highly tanned,
middle-aged executive type. He scowled at Johnny McCord with a
this-better-be-important expression, not helping Johnny's disposition.
He snapped, "Somebody's let several thousand goats into my eucalyptus
transplants in my western four hundred."
Mellor was taken aback.
Johnny said, "I can have Derek back-trail them, if you want to be sure,
but it's almost positive they came from the south, this time of year."
Mellor sputtered, "They might have come from the direction of
Timmissao. Who are they, anyway?"
"I don't know. Tuareg. I thought we'd supposedly settled with all the
Tuareg. Good Lord, man, do you know how many transplants a thousand
goats can go through in a week's time?"
"A week's time!" Mellor rasped. "You mean you've taken a whole week to
detect them?"
Johnny McCord glared at him. "A _whole_ week! We're lucky they didn't
spend the whole _season_ before we found them. How big a staff do you
think we have here, Mellor? There's just three of us. Only one can be
spared for patrol."
"You have natives," the older man growled.
"They can't fly helicopters. Most of them can't even drive a Land Rover
or a jeep. Besides that, they're scared to death of Tuaregs. They
wouldn't dare report them. What I want to know is, why didn't you stop
them coming through?"
Mellor was on the defensive. He ranked Johnny McCord, but that was
beside the point right now. He said finally, "I'll check this all the
way through, McCord. Meanwhile, I'll send young Mohammed Mohmoud up
with a group of his men."
"To do what?" Johnny demanded.
"To shoot the goats, what else?"
* * * * *
Johnny growled, "One of these days a bunch of these Tuareg are going to
decide that a lynching bee is in order, and that's going to be the end
of this little base at Bidon Cinq."
Mellor said, "If they're Tuareg nomads then they have no legal right
to be within several hundred miles of Bidon Cinq. And if they've got
goats, they shouldn't have. The Commission has bought up every goat in
this part of the world."
Johnny growled, "Sure, bought them up and then left it to the honor of
the Tuareg to destroy them. The honor of the Tuareg! Ha!"
The other said pompously, "Are you criticizing the upper echelons,
McCord?"
Johnny McCord snapped, "You're damned right I am." He slammed off the
telephone and turned on Derek Mason. "What are you grinning about?"
Derek drawled, "I say, Hiram, I got a sneaky suspicion you ain't never
gonna graduate off'n this here farm if you don't learn how to cotton up
to the city slickers better."
"Oh, shut up," Johnny growled. "Let's have another beer."
Before Derek could bring it to him, the telephone screen lit up again
and Paul Peterson, of the Poste Weygand base, was there. He said, "Hi.
You guys look like you're having a crisis."
"Hello, Paul," Johnny McCord said. "Crisis is right. Those jerks down
south let a clan of Tuareg, complete with a few thousand goats, camels
and sheep through. They've been grazing a week or more in my west four
hundred."
"Good grief." Paul grimaced. "At least that's one thing we don't have
to worry about. They never get this far up. How'd it happen?"
"I don't know, but I'm going to find out. I haven't seen the mess yet,
but it's certain to wreck that whole four hundred. Have you ever seen
just one goat at work on the bark of three-year transplants?"
Paul shuddered sympathetically. "Look, Johnny," he said. "The reason I
called you. There's an air-cushion Land Rover coming through. She just
left."
Derek Mason looked over Johnny's shoulder into the screen. "What d'ya
mean, _she_?"
Paul grinned. "Just that, and, Buster, she's stacked. A Mademoiselle
Hélène Desage of _Paris Match_."
Johnny said, "The French magazine? What's she doing in a road car? Why
doesn't she have an aircraft? There hasn't been a road car through here
this whole year."
Paul shrugged. "She claims she's getting it from the viewpoint of how
things must've been twenty years ago. So, anyway, we've notified you.
If she doesn't turn up in eight or ten hours, you better send somebody
to look for her."
"Yeah," Johnny McCord said. "Well, so long, Paul."
The other's face faded from the screen and Johnny McCord turned to his
colleague. "One more extraneous something to foul up our schedule."
Derek said mildly, "I say, Hiram, what're you complaining about? Didn't
you hear tell what Paul just said? She's stacked. Be just like a
traveling saleswoman visitin' the farm."
"Yeah," Johnny growled. "And I can see just how much work I'll be
getting out of you as long as she's here."