Johnny McCord glared at him. "A _whole_ week! We're lucky they didn't spend the whole _season_ before we found them. How big a staff do you think we have here, Mellor? There's just three of us. Only one can be spared for patrol." "You have natives," the older man growled. "They can't fly helicopters. Most of them can't even drive a Land Rover or a jeep. Besides that, they're scared to death of Tuaregs. They wouldn't dare report them. What I want to know is, why didn't you stop them coming through?" Mellor was on the defensive. He ranked Johnny McCord, but that was beside the point right now. He said finally, "I'll check this all the way through, McCord. Meanwhile, I'll send young Mohammed Mohmoud up with a group of his men." "To do what?" Johnny demanded. "To shoot the goats, what else?" * * * * * Johnny growled, "One of these days a bunch of these Tuareg are going to decide that a lynching bee is in order, and that's going to be the end of this little base at Bidon Cinq." Mellor said, "If they're Tuareg nomads then they have no legal right to be within several hundred miles of Bidon Cinq. And if they've got goats, they shouldn't have. The Commission has bought up every goat in this part of the world." Johnny growled, "Sure, bought them up and then left it to the honor of the Tuareg to destroy them. The honor of the Tuareg! Ha!" The other said pompously, "Are you criticizing the upper echelons, McCord?" Johnny McCord snapped, "You're damned right I am." He slammed off the telephone and turned on Derek Mason. "What are you grinning about?" Derek drawled, "I say, Hiram, I got a sneaky suspicion you ain't never gonna graduate off'n this here farm if you don't learn how to cotton up to the city slickers better." "Oh, shut up," Johnny growled. "Let's have another beer." Before Derek could bring it to him, the telephone screen lit up again and Paul Peterson, of the Poste Weygand base, was there. He said, "Hi. You guys look like you're having a crisis." "Hello, Paul," Johnny McCord said. "Crisis is right. Those jerks down south let a clan of Tuareg, complete with a few thousand goats, camels and sheep through. They've been grazing a week or more in my west four hundred." "Good grief." Paul grimaced. "At least that's one thing we don't have to worry about. They never get this far up. How'd it happen?" "I don't know, but I'm going to find out. I haven't seen the mess yet, but it's certain to wreck that whole four hundred. Have you ever seen just one goat at work on the bark of three-year transplants?" Paul shuddered sympathetically. "Look, Johnny," he said. "The reason I called you. There's an air-cushion Land Rover coming through. She just left." Derek Mason looked over Johnny's shoulder into the screen. "What d'ya mean, _she_?" Paul grinned. "Just that, and, Buster, she's stacked. A Mademoiselle Hélène Desage of _Paris Match_."