Johnny frowned but was saved from an answer by the entrance of Mohammed Mohmoud. He was dark as a Saharan becomes dark, his original Berber blood to be seen only in his facial characteristics. He wore the rather flamboyant Mali Federation desert uniform with an air.
When he saw the girl, his eyebrows rose and he made the Moslem salaam with a sweeping flourish.
Johnny said, "Mademoiselle Desage, may I present Captain Mohammed Mohmoud ould Cheikh, of the Mali desert patrol." He added sourly, "The officer in charge of preventing nomads from filtering up from the south into our infant forests."
The Moslem scowled at him. "They could have come from the east, from Timmissao," he said in quite passable English. "Or even from Mauritania." He turned his eyes to Hélène Desage. "Enchanté, Mademoiselle. Trés heureux de faire ta connaissance."
She gave him the full benefit of her eyes. "Moi aussi, Monsieur."
Johnny wasn't through with the Malian officer. "There's a hundred of them," he snapped, "with several thousand head of goats and other livestock. It would have been impossible to push that number across from Mauritania or even from the east, and you know it."
A lighter complexion would have shown a flush. Mohammed Mohmoud's displeasure was limited in expression to a flashing of desert eyes. He said, "Wherever their origin, the task would seem to be immediately to destroy the animals. That is why my men and I are here."
Pierre Marimbert had entered while the conversation was going on. He said, "Johnny, weren't you going over to In Ziza with me?"
Hélène Desage said, the tip of her right forefinger to her chin as she portrayed thought, "I can't decide where to go. To this crisis of the Tuareg, or to the crisis of the pumps—whatever that is."
Johnny said flatly, "Sorry, but you'd just be in the way at either place."