Johnny growled, "It's not as bad as all that. They've got to eat and drink, and so do their animals. There are damned few places where they can."
From the door a voice said, "I am intruding?"
They hadn't heard her car come up. The three men scrambled to their feet.
"Good evening," Johnny McCord blurted.
"Hell ... o!" Derek breathed.
Pierre Marimbert was across the room, taking her in hand. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Que puis-je faire pour vous? Voulez-vous une biere bien fraiche ou un apéritif? Il fait trés chaud dans le desert." He led her toward the table.
"Easy, easy there, Reuben," Derek grumbled. "The young lady speaks English. Give a man a chance."
Johnny was placing a chair for her. "Paul Peterson, from Poste Weygand, radioed that you were coming. You're a little late, Mademoiselle Desage."
She was perhaps thirty, slim, long-legged, Parisian style. Even at Bidon Cinq, half a world away from the Champs Elysées, she maintained her chic.
She made a moue at Johnny, while taking the chair he held. "I had hoped to surprise you, catch you off guard." She took in the sun-dried, dour-faced American wood technologist appraisingly, then turned her eyes in turn to Derek and Pierre.