She looked at him appraisingly. "Mr. McCord," she said, "I am here
for a story. Has it occurred to you that preventing a _Paris Match_
reporter from seeing your methods of operation is probably a bigger
story than anything else I could find here?" She struck a mock pose.
"I can see the headlines. _Sahara Reforestation Authorities Prevent
Journalists from Observing Operations_."
"Oh, Good Lord," Johnny growled. "This should happen to me, yet! Go on
with Derek and the captain, if you wish."
* * * * *
Pierre Marimbert and Johnny McCord took one of the faster helicopters,
Pierre piloting. With French élan he immediately raised the craft a
few feet and then like a nervous horse it backed up, wheeled about and
dashed forward in full flight.
Spread below them were the several dozen buildings which comprised
Bidon Cinq; surrounding the buildings, the acres of palm and pine,
eucalyptus and black locust. Quick-growing, dry-climate trees
predominated, but there were even such as balsam fir, chestnut and elm.
It made an attractive sight from the air.
The reforestation projects based on Bidon Cinq were not all in the
immediate vicinity of the home oasis. By air, In Ziza was almost 125
kilometers to the northeast. By far the greater part of the land
lying in between was still lacking in vegetation of any sort. The
hydro-geological engineers who had originally surveyed the area for
water had selected only the best sections for immediate sinking of
wells, placement of solar power pumps, and eventually the importation
of two-year seedlings and three- and four-year-old transplants. The
heavy auto-planters, brought in by air transport, had ground their way
across the desert sands in their hundreds, six feet between machines.
Stop, dig the hole, set the seedling, splash in water, artfully tamp
down the soil, move on another six feet, stop--and begin the operation
all over again. Fifty trees an hour, per machine.
In less than two months, the planters had moved on to a new base
further north. The mob of scientists, engineers, water and forest
technicians, mechanics and laborers melted away, leaving Johnny McCord,
his two assistants, his half dozen punch-card machines, his automated
equipment and his forty or fifty native workers. It was one of a
hundred such centers. It would eventually be one of thousands. The
Sahara covered an area almost the size of Europe.
Johnny McCord growled, "Friend Mohammed seems quite taken with our
reporter."
Pierre grinned and tried to imitate a New England twang. "Why not,
Hiram? She's the first, eh, women folks seen in these parts for many
a day." He looked down at the endless stretches of sand dunes, gravel
and rock out-croppings. "Mighty dry farm land you've got around here,
Hiram."
Johnny McCord grunted. "Derek said the other day it's so dry even the
mirages are only mud holes." He pointed with his forefinger. "There's
the first of our trees. Now, what pumps did you check?"
Pierre directed the copter lower, skimmed not much higher than the
young tree tops. Some of them had already reached an impressive height.
But Johnny McCord realized that the time was not too distant when
they'd have to replant. Casualties were considerably higher than in
forest planting at home. Considerably so. And replanting wasn't nearly
so highly automated as the original work. More manpower was required.
"These pumps here seem all right," he said to Pierre.
"A little further north," Pierre said. "I came in over the track there,
from the road that comes off the main route to Poste Weygand. Yes,
there we are. Look! Completely destroyed."
Johnny swore. The trees that had depended on that particular pump
wouldn't last a month, in spite of the fact that they were among the
first set in this area.
He said, "Go higher. We should be able to spot the complete damage with
glasses. You saw twenty-two, you say?"
"Yes, I don't know how many more there might be."
There were twenty-five destroyed pumps in all. And all of them were
practically together.
It was sheer luck that Pierre Marimbert had located them so soon. Had
his routine check taken place in some other section of the vast tree
development, he would have found nothing untoward.
"This isn't nearly so bad as I had expected," Johnny growled. He was
scowling thoughtfully.
"What's the matter?" Pierre said.
"I just don't get it," Johnny said. "Number one, nomads don't carry
dynamite, unless it's been deliberately given them. Two, if it
was given them by someone with a purpose, why only enough to blow
twenty-five pumps? That isn't a drop in the bucket. A few thousand
trees are all we'll lose. Three, where did they come from? Where are
their tracks? And where have they gone? This job wasn't done so very
long ago, probably within a week or two at most."
"How do you know that?"
"Otherwise those trees affected would already be dying. At their age,
they couldn't stand the sun long without water."
Pierre said, his face registering disbelief, "Do you think it could be
simple vandalism on the part of a small band of Tuareg?"
"Sure, if the pumps had been destroyed by hand. But with explosives?
Even if your band of Tuareg did have explosives they wouldn't waste
them on a few Sahara Reforestation Commission pumps."
"This whole thing just doesn't make sense," Pierre Marimbert decided.
"Let's land and take a look at one of those pumps," Johnny said. "You
know, if you get the whole crew to work on this you might be able
to replace them before we lose any of these transplants. It's all
according to how long ago they were destroyed."