"You could have gone back tomorrow. The things are supposed to be self-sufficient, no checking necessary more than once every three months. There's practically nothing that can go wrong with them."
Pierre finished off the can of beer, reached into the refrigerator for another. "Dynamite can go wrong with them," he said.
The other two looked at him, shocked silent.
Pierre said, "I don't know how many altogether. I found twenty-two of the pumps in the vicinity of In Ziza had been blown to smithereens—out of forty I checked."
Johnny rapped, "How long ago? How many trees...?"
Pierre laughed sourly. "I don't know how long ago. The transplants, especially the slash pine, are going to be just so much kindling before I get new pumps in."
Derek said, shocked, "That's our oldest stand."
Pierre Marimbert, a forty-year-old, sun-beaten Algerian colon, eldest man on the team, sank into his place at the table. He poured the balance of his can of beer into a glass.
Johnny said, "What ... what can we do? How many spare pumps can you get into there, and how soon?"