Read The Count of the Sahara for Free Online Page A

slow, camel trek through harsh conditions to undiscovered Stone Age sites, risking sandstorms and death by scimitar along the way. Instead he got brand new trucks, hotels for the first and last legs of the journey and less than a month of real field work. On top of all that, he had to put up with de Prorok’s shenanigans.
    Maybe, he thought, the real age of exploration was over and done. Camels were being replaced with cars and pneumatic tires. Proud warrior tribes were fast becoming tame subjects of anthropological studies, as if the depths of the Sahara were no more mysterious than a day trip to the Wisconsin Dells. Still, it beat Beloit and another semester in the classroom.
    The tribes were still a little bit of a concern, as evidenced by the machine gun bracket mounted to the roof frame. Between Algerian malcontents and Tuareg tribes that had bent the knee in name only, it was better to have it and not need it than the other way around. Algeria was no picnic at the best of times, and even with more rain and the best crop in years, this was far from the best of times. Maybe Brad was right, he thought. Leave everything to the Count and just do your job. If, of course, they ever left town.
    Finally, the last hand was kissed or shaken, and the final palm greased. The Count turned to the assembly and raised his pith helmet in salute. “Adieu, adieus—allons nous en,” which was the cue for several burnoose-clad locals to fire their muskets in the air to the cheers of the restless crowd.
    Byron couldn’t fully hide his satisfaction as Madame Rouvier waved her handkerchief and bravely fought back tears. He strode to Sandy’s passenger side, flung open the door, gave the crowd a final exultant flourish with his helmet, and the Franco-American Sahara Expedition of 1925 was well and truly away, heading towards the Sahara on the last paved road they’d see for a while.
    At the edge of town was the Sidi Rached Bridge, a marvel of engineering in a place where camel dung bricks were considered quality construction material. It ran 330 feet high over the Gorge du Rhumel in a graceful swoop over multiple Romanesque arches. It was the first sign of civilization desert visitors saw when arriving in Constantine, and the last thing they saw—perhaps forever—as they headed into the barren wastes of the Sahara desert. Pond admitted it was a dramatic departure point, and must have made quite a picture. Before he could really enjoy it, though, the cars coasted to a halt at the very end of the bridge.
    “Now what?” he groaned. Tyrrell just shrugged and the two men craned their necks out the windows to see Barth and two porters shooing a donkey loaded with camera equipment while the photographer held his hat on his head with one hand. Apparently, Count de Prorok also thought of what a dramatic sight it would make and had arranged for the whole vista to be filmed in all its glory. Now they had to wait for him to catch up.
    The three cars and their inhabitants simmered in the heat at the end of the bridge, blocking traffic and enduring the honks and curses of those trying to enter the city. Finally, after ten minutes of agony, equipment and photographer were unceremoniously stowed in the back of the lead car, and they were truly, finally, off to their first destination. Next stop would be a little oasis called Batna.
    The cars were unevenly loaded—most of the gas and water had been strapped to the Marshall’s car, Hot Dog. Lucky Strike carried the Americans, food, water and barrels for the archaeological samples, along with the machine gun. Sandy, the lead car, contained the Count’s precious film equipment and not much else, so it was no surprise to Pond that they were becoming separated from each other. The lighter cars were able to travel a rather impressive thirty-five miles per hour, as opposed to their vehicle that chugged along at only twenty-five or so.
    Going slower at least allowed for more sight-seeing. They passed