Johnny sighed deeply, "Look, Mr. Mellor, Pierre Marimbert and I just
returned from several hours in the desert, inspecting pumps. We're
dehydrated, so we're drinking cold beer. It tastes wonderful. I doubt
if it will lead either of us to a drunkard's grave."
Mellor scowled pompously. He said finally, "See here, McCord--the
reason I called--you can be expecting a reporter from one of the French
publications--"
"She's here."
"Oh," Mellor said. "I just received notice this morning. Orders are to
give her the utmost cooperation. Things are on the touchy side right
now. Very touchy."
"How do you mean?" Johnny said.
"There are pressures on the highest levels," Mellor said, managing to
put over the impression that these matters were above and beyond such
as Johnny McCord but that he, Mellor, was privy to them.
"What pressures?" Johnny said wearily. "If you want me to handle this
woman with kid gloves, then I've got to know what I'm protecting her
against, or hiding from her, or whatever the hell I'm supposed to do."
Mellor glared at him. "I'm not sure I always appreciate your flippancy,
McCord," he said. "However, back home the opposition is in an uproar
over our expenditures. Things are very delicate. A handful of votes
could sway the continuance of the whole project."
Johnny McCord closed his eyes in pain. This came up every year or so.
Mellor said, "That isn't all. The Russkies are putting up a howl in the
Reunited Nations. They claim the West plans to eventually take over all
northwest Africa. That this reforestation is just preliminary to make
the area worth assimilating."