Hélène Desage snorted in deprecation. "So, we'll drag in that old
wheeze. The red menace. Blame it on _la Russie_."
Johnny McCord said mildly, "We haven't blamed anything on the Russkies,
Miss Desage. The Tuareg have a right to bear arms, there are still
dangerous animals in the Mali Federation. And they are free to purchase
Czech weapons if they find them better or cheaper than western ones.
Don't find an exciting story where there is none. Things are tranquil
here."
Hélène Desage stared at him. So did Mohammed Mohmoud and Derek Mason
for that matter.
Only Pierre Marimbert realized Johnny McCord's position, and he
chuckled and went for more beer.
V
Johnny McCord was a man who didn't like to be thrown out of routine. He
resented the interference with his schedule of the past few days. By
nature he was methodical, not given to inspiration.
All of which was probably the reason that he spent a sleepless night
trying to find rhyme and reason where seemingly there was none.
At dawn, he stepped from the door of his Quonset hut quarters and
looked for a moment into the gigantic red ball which was the Saharan
sun. Neither dawn nor sunset at Bidon Cinq were spectacular, nor would
they become so until the Sahara Reforestation Commission began to
return moisture to desert skies. Johnny wondered if he would live to
see it.
He made his way over to the huge steel shed which doubled as garage and
aircraft hanger. As yet, none of the native mechanics were stirring,
although he could hear sounds of activity in the community kitchen.
Derek Mason looked up from his inspection of Hélène Desage's
air-cushion Land Rover.