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

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 outcroppings. “Mighty dry farmland 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.”

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.

“Mellor!” Pierre grunted. “How do you Americans say it? Stuffed shirt!”

“Yeah,” Johnny McCord said, sitting down to the telephone. “But 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, “Hi. I understand the old man wants to talk to me.”

“That’s right,” the girl said, and moved a switch. “Just 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. “Where’ve you been, McCord?”

“Checking some pumps near In Ziza,” Johnny said evenly.

“Leaving no one at all at camp?” the other said.

Johnny said, “There were at least a score of men here, Mr. Mellor.”

“No 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, “There are only three of us here, Mr. Mellor. We have to stretch our manpower. Derek Mason had to go over to Amérene el Kasbach with Mohammed Mohmoud and his