From a tunic pocket Mohammed Mohmoud brought a handgun and handed it to Johnny McCord. "I thought you might like to see this. They were quite well armed. At first I thought there might be resistance." Johnny turned the automatic over in his hands, scowling at it. "What's there to see that's special? I don't know much about guns." Mohammed Mohmoud said, "It was made in Pilsen." Johnny looked up at him. "Czechoslovakia, eh?" The other said, "So were most of their rifles." 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. Johnny McCord scowled at him. "What in the hell are you doing here?" The lanky Canadian came erect and looked for a long moment at his superior. He said finally, soberly, "It occurs to me that I'm probably doing the same thing you came to do." "What have you found?" "That a small bomb has been attached to the starter." Johnny didn't change expression. It fitted in. "What else?" he said. Derek handed him a steel ring. Johnny McCord looked at it, recognized it for what it was and stuck it in his pocket. "Let's go back to the office. Yell in to the cook to send some coffee over, and call Pierre. We've got some notes to check." Mademoiselle Desage was a late riser. When she entered the office, the three Sahara Reforestation Commission officers were already at work. She said snappishly to Johnny McCord, "Today I would like to see these destroyed pumps."