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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, β€œFriend Mohammed seems quite taken with our reporter.”

Pierre grinned and tried to imitate a New England twang. β€œWhy 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 outcroppings. β€œMighty dry farmland you’ve got around here, Hiram.”

Johnny McCord grunted. β€œDerek said the other day it’s so dry even the mirages are only mud holes.” He pointed with his forefinger. β€œThere’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.

β€œThese pumps here seem all right,” he said to Pierre.

β€œA little further north,” Pierre said. β€œI 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, β€œGo higher. We should be able to spot the complete damage with glasses. You saw twenty-two, you say?”

β€œYes, 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.

β€œThis isn’t nearly so bad as I had expected,” Johnny growled. He was scowling thoughtfully.

β€œWhat’s the matter?” Pierre said.

β€œI just don’t get it,” Johnny said. β€œNumber 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.”

β€œHow do you know that?”

β€œOtherwise 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, β€œDo you think it could be simple vandalism on the part of a small band of Tuareg?”

β€œSure, 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.”

β€œThis whole thing just doesn’t make sense,” Pierre Marimbert decided.

β€œLet’s land and take a look at one of those pumps,” Johnny said. β€œYou 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.”

IV

Back at Bidon Cinq again that afternoon, Johnny McCord was greeted by the native office assistant he’d left in charge while all three of the officers were gone. Mellor, at the Tissalit base, had made several attempts to get in touch with him.

β€œMellor!” Pierre grunted. β€œHow do you Americans say it? Stuffed shirt!”

β€œYeah,” Johnny McCord said, sitting down to the telephone. β€œBut my boss.”

While Pierre was fishing two cans of beer from the refrigerator, Johnny dialed Tissalit. Kate’s face lit up the screen. Johnny said, β€œHi. I understand the old man wants to talk to me.”

β€œThat’s right,” the girl said, and moved a switch. β€œJust a minute, Johnny.”

Her face faded to be replaced by that of Mellor. Johnny noted that as usual the other wore a business suit, complete with white shirt and tie⁠—in the middle of the Sahara!

Mellor was scowling. β€œWhere’ve you been, McCord?”

β€œChecking some pumps near In Ziza,” Johnny said evenly.

β€œLeaving no one at all at camp?” the other said.

Johnny said, β€œThere were at least a score of men here, Mr. Mellor.”

β€œNo officers. Suppose an emergency came up?”

Johnny felt like saying, An emergency did come up, two of them in fact. That’s why we were all gone at once. But for some reason he decided against explaining current happenings at Bidon Cinq until he had a clearer picture. He said, β€œThere are only three of us here, Mr. Mellor. We have to stretch our manpower. Derek Mason had to go over to AmΓ©rene el Kasbach with Mohammed Mohmoud and his

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