As he and the expressionless Turk settled in comfortable leather chairs, a steward served hors d'oeuvres and champagne.
A bit fancy aren't we?" asked Yerli. "Do you always throw out the red carpet for ordinary visitors?"
"Mr. Massarde's orders," replied Verenne stiffly. "He abhors the American practice of offering soft drinks, beer, and nuts. He insists that as Frenchmen we demonstrate refined taste in keeping with French culture, regardless of the status of our visitors."
Yerli held up his glass of champagne. "To Yves Massarde, may he never cease being generous."
"To our boss," said Verenne. "May he never stop his generosity to those who are loyal."
Yerli downed his glass with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders and held it out for a refill. "Any feedback on your operations at Fort Foureau from environmentalist groups?"
"Not really. They're in a bit of a quandary. They applaud our self-sufficient solar energy design, but they're scared to death of what burning toxic wastes will do to the desert air."
Yerli studied the bubbles in his champagne glass. "You are certain the secret of Fort Foureau is still safe? What if European and American governments get wind of the real operation?"
Verenne laughed. "Are you joking? Most of the governments of the industrialized world are only too happy to go along with secretly getting rid of their hazardous garbage without public knowledge. Privately, bureaucratic officials and business executives of nuclear and chemical plants around the world have given us their blessing."
"They know?" Yerli asked in surprise.
Verenne looked at him with a bemused smile. "Who do you think are Massarde's clients?"
After leaving the truck, Pitt and Giordino walked through the heat of the afternoon and under the cold of the night, wanting to travel as far as possible while they were still reasonably fresh. When they finally stopped and rested, it was the following dawn. By burrowing m the sand and covering their bodies during the heat of the day, they shielded themselves from the blazing sun and reduced their water loss. The gentle pressure from the sand also gave some relief to their tired muscles.
They made 48 kilometers (30 miles) toward their goal the first trek. They actually walked further, meandering across the hard floor valleys between sand dunes. The second night they set out before sunset so Pitt could position the stake and set their course until the stars came out. By sunup the next morning the Trans-Saharan Track was another 42 kilometers closer. Before digging under their daily blanket of sand, they drained the last drops of water from the canister. From now on, until they found a new supply of water, their bodies would begin to wither and die.
The third night of their trek, they had to cross a barrier of dunes that stretched out of sight to the right and left. The dunes, though menacing, were things of beauty. Their delicate, smooth surfaces were sculptured into fragile, evermoving ripples by the restless wind. Pitt quickly learned their secrets. After a gentle slope, the dune usually dropped sharply on the other side. They traveled when practical on the razor-edged crests of the dunes to prevent slogging up and down the soft, giving sand. If this proved difficult, they meandered through the hollows where the sand was firmer beneath their feet.
On the fourth day the dunes gradually became lower and finally fell away onto a wide sandy plain, dreary and waterless. During the hottest part of the day the sun beat down on the parched flatland like a blacksmith's hammer against red hot iron. Though thankful to be crossing a level surface, they found the walking difficult. Two kinds of ripples covered the sandy ground. The first being small, shallow ridges, which presented no problem. But the other, large ripples spaced farther apart, crested at exactly the length of their strides, creating a tiring effect much like walking the ties of a railroad.
Their hiking time became shorter and the rest stops longer and more frequent. They plodded on, their heads down, silent. Talking only made their mouths drier. They were prisoners of the sand, held captive by a cage measured only by distance. There were few distinct landmarks except for the jagged peaks of a low range of rock that reminded Pitt of the vertebra of a dead monster. It was a land where each kilometer looked exactly like the last and time ran without meaning as if turning on a treadmill.
After 20 kilometers, the plains met a plateau. The new sun was about to rise when they put it to a vote and decided to climb the steep escarpment to the top before resting for the day. Four hours later, when they finally struggled over the edge, the sun had risen well above the horizon. The effort had taken what little reserves they had left. Their hearts pounded madly after the torturous strain of the strenuous ascent, leg muscles fiery with pain, chests heaving as starving lungs demanded more air.
Pitt was exhausted and afraid to sit down for fear he could never regain his feet again. He stood weakly, swaying on the ledge, and gazed around as if he was a captain on the bridge of a ship. If the plain below was a featureless wasteland, the surface of the plateau was a sun-blasted, grotesque nightmare. A sea of confused, twisted tumbles of scorched red and black rock, interspersed with rusting obelisk-like outcroppings of iron ore, spread out to the east directly in their path. It was like staring at a city destroyed centuries ago by a nuclear explosion.
"What part of Hades is this?" Giordino rasped.
Pitt pulled out Fairweather's map, now badly wrinkled and beginning to split apart, and flattened it across his knee. "He shows it on the map, but didn't write in a name."
"Then from this moment on, it shall be known as Giordino's hump."
Pitt's parched lips cracked into a smile. "If you want to register the name, all you have to do is apply with the International Geological Institute."
Giordino collapsed on the rocky ground and stared vacantly across the plateau. "How far have we come?"
"About 120 kilometers."
"Still 60 to go to the Trans-Saharan Track."
"Except that we ran up against a manifestation of Pitt's law."
"What law is that?"
"He who follows another man's map comes up 20 kilometers short."
"You sure we didn't take a wrong turn back there?"
Pitt shook his head. "We haven't traveled in a straight line."
"So how much farther?"
"I reckon another 80 kilometers."
Giordino looked at Pitt through sunken eyes that were reddened from fatigue and spoke through lips cracked and swollen. "That's another 50 miles. We've already come the last 70 without a drop of water."
"Seems more like a thousand," Pitt said hoarsely.
"Well," Giordino muttered. "I have to say the issue is in doubt. I don't think I can make it."
Pitt looked up from the map. "I never thought I'd hear that from you."
"I've never experienced total agonizing thirst before. I can remember when it was a daily sensation. Now it's become more of an obsession than a craving."
"Two more nights and we'll dance on the track."
Giordino slowly shook his head. "Wishful thinking. We don't have the stamina to walk another 50 miles without water in this heat, not as dehydrated as we are."
Pitt was haunted by the constant vision of Eva slaving in the mines, being beaten by Melika. "They'll all die if we don't get through."
"You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip," said Giordino. "It's a miracle we made it this far-" He sat up and shaded his eyes. Then he pointed excitedly toward a jumbled mass of huge rocks. "There, between those rocks, doesn't that look like the small entrance to a cave?"
Pitt's eyes followed his pointing hand. There was indeed a black opening amid the rocks. He took Giordino's hand and pulled him to his feet. "See, our luck's changing for the better already. Nothing like a nice, cool cave to while away the hottest time of the day."