Johnny McCord growled, "Friend Mohammed seems quite taken with our reporter."
Pierre grinned and tried to imitate a New England twang. "Why not, Hiram? She's the first, eh, women folks seen in these parts for many a day." He looked down at the endless stretches of sand dunes, gravel and rock out-croppings. "Mighty dry farm land you've got around here, Hiram."
Johnny McCord grunted. "Derek said the other day it's so dry even the mirages are only mud holes." He pointed with his forefinger. "There's the first of our trees. Now, what pumps did you check?"
Pierre directed the copter lower, skimmed not much higher than the young tree tops. Some of them had already reached an impressive height. But Johnny McCord realized that the time was not too distant when they'd have to replant. Casualties were considerably higher than in forest planting at home. Considerably so. And replanting wasn't nearly so highly automated as the original work. More manpower was required.
"These pumps here seem all right," he said to Pierre.
"A little further north," Pierre said. "I came in over the track there, from the road that comes off the main route to Poste Weygand. Yes, there we are. Look! Completely destroyed."
Johnny swore. The trees that had depended on that particular pump wouldn't last a month, in spite of the fact that they were among the first set in this area.
He said, "Go higher. We should be able to spot the complete damage with glasses. You saw twenty-two, you say?"
"Yes, I don't know how many more there might be."
There were twenty-five destroyed pumps in all. And all of them were practically together.