Short Fiction, Mack Reynolds [best book reader txt] 📗

the large wall map. “Our territory, of course, is only this area which once was called French West Africa, plus Algeria. The battle is being fought elsewhere by others. The Egyptians and Sudanese are doing a fairly good job in their country, with Soviet Complex help. The Tunisians are doing a wonderful job with the assistance of Common Europe, especially Italy.”

She stood beside him and tried to understand. “What is this area, here, shaded green?”

He said proudly, “That’s how far we’ve got so far, heading north from the Niger. In the past, the desert actually came down to the side of the river in many places. The water was completely wasted. Now we’ve diverted it and are reforesting anywhere up to three miles a year.”

“Three miles a year,” she scoffed. “You’ll take five centuries.”

He shook his head and grinned. “It’s a progressive thing. Water is admittedly the big problem. But as our forests grow, they themselves bring up the moisture content of the climate. Down in this area⁠—” he made a sweeping gesture over the map which took in large sections north of the Niger⁠—“we’ve put in hundreds of millions of slash pine, which is particularly good for sandy soil and fast growing. In ten years you’ve gone from two-year-old seedlings to a respectable forest.”

Johnny pointed out Bidon Cinq on the map. “At the same time we found what amounts to a subterranean sea in this area. Not a real sea, of course, but a water-bearing formation or aquifer, deep down under the surface of the earth⁠—layers of rock and gravel in which large quantities of water are lying. The hydro-geological technicians who surveyed it estimate that it holds reserves of several billion tons of water. Utilizing it, we’ve put in several hundred square miles of seedlings and transplants of various varieties. Where there are natural oases, of course, we stress a lot of date palm. In rocky areas it’s Acacia tortila. In the mountains we sometimes use varieties of the piñon⁠—they’ll take quite a beating but are a little on the slow-growing side.”

She was looking at him from the sides of her eyes. “You’re all taken up by this, aren’t you Mr. McCord?”

Johnny said, surprise in his voice. “Why, it’s my work.”

Derek came sauntering in and scaled his sun helmet onto his own desk. “Good morning, Mademoiselle,” he said. And to Johnny, “Hiram, that city slicker from Timbuktu just came up with his posse.”

Hélène said, “What is this Si, Hiram and Reuben which you call each other?”

Johnny smiled sourly, “In a way, Miss Desage, this is just one great tree farm. And all of us are farmers. So we make jokes about it.” He thought for a moment. “Derek, possibly you better take over with Mohammed. I want to get over to In Ziza with Reuben.”

“To see about the pumps?” Hélène said innocently.

Johnny frowned but was saved from an answer by the entrance of Mohammed Mohmoud. He was dark as a Saharan becomes dark, his original Berber blood to be seen only in his facial characteristics. He wore the rather flamboyant Mali Federation desert uniform with an air.

When he saw the girl, his eyebrows rose and he made the Muslim salaam with a sweeping flourish.

Johnny said, “Mademoiselle Desage, may I present Captain Mohammed Mohmoud ould Cheikh, of the Mali desert patrol.” He added sourly, “The officer in charge of preventing nomads from filtering up from the south into our infant forests.”

The Muslim scowled at him. “They could have come from the east, from Timmissao,” he said in quite passable English. “Or even from Mauritania.” He turned his eyes to Hélène Desage. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle. Trés heureux de faire ta connaissance.”

She gave him the full benefit of her eyes. “Moi aussi, Monsieur.”

Johnny wasn’t through with the Malian officer. “There’s a hundred of them,” he snapped, “with several thousand head of goats and other livestock. It would have been impossible to push that number across from Mauritania or even from the east, and you know it.”

A lighter complexion would have shown a flush. Mohammed Mohmoud’s displeasure was limited in expression to a flashing of desert eyes. He said, “Wherever their origin, the task would seem to be immediately to destroy the animals. That is why my men and I are here.”

Pierre Marimbert had entered while the conversation was going on. He said, “Johnny, weren’t you going over to In Ziza with me?”

Hélène Desage said, the tip of her right forefinger to her chin as she portrayed thought, “I can’t decide where to go. To this crisis of the Tuareg, or to the crisis of the pumps⁠—whatever that is.”

Johnny said flatly, “Sorry, but you’d just be in the way at either place.”

Mohammed Mohmoud was shrugging. “Why not let her come with me? I can guarantee her protection. I have brought fifty men with me, more than a match for a few bedouin.”

“Gracious,” she said. “Evidently I was unaware of the magnitude of this matter. I absolutely must go.”

Johnny said, “No.”

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