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through a few small hamlets. One even had a small gas station, which they passed. It was only a short run and, as Martini said, the Count had made all the arrangements.
    Nine miles from Batna, Lucky Strike caught up with Reygasse’s car, Hot Dog. It sat at the side of the road, with a very perturbed looking driver kicking at the door and exhibiting a rather impressive vocabulary of French curses. A stoic Marshall Reygasse sat upright in the car, staring straight ahead. Louis Chapuis and Belaid squatted in the dirt in the shade of the vehicle.
    “Chaix, que c’est que passe?” Martini asked as he stepped from the car.
    “Manque d’essence.” Pond winced, recognizing the phrase from his own days as an ambulance driver. Hot Dog had run out of gas. He grinned as he saw the frustrated driver kicking the front bumper as if that would solve the problem.
    Louis Chapuis strode over to the car. “The Count and the others went on ahead to Batna and they’re sending back some gas. Chaix, there, wouldn’t leave his precious truck so we stayed with him. Renault probably wouldn’t like anything to happen to it.”
    Pond agreed. “Well, hop in, no sense all of you sitting around.”
    “I’ll stay with Chaix. Algeria is no place to be alone,” the guide offered.
    Reygasse and Belaid, though, were happy to accept a ride, crowded though it was. It was unpleasantly warm and sticky before the extra bodies were added. Now it was downright fragrant. With the windows open, though, nine miles wasn’t such a long haul. Off they went, Brad Tyrrell playing his harmonica to lighten the mood.
    They were almost to Batna when Pond heard Martini muttering to himself, “Non… non… God damned stupid machine…” and he slammed his fist on the steering wheel.
    Pond heard the engine utter a sad “chucka-chucka-pawwwww” and Lucky Strike coasted to a stop. Everyone sat quietly for a moment. Finally he couldn’t take the suspense. “What’s wrong?”
    “Manque d’essence,” offered the stoic driver, who got out and lifted the truck’s bonnet to ensure that’s all it was. He dropped it with an echoing “thunk”. “Si, that’s all it is. We’re out of gas too.”
    Brad Tyrrell pulled his pipe out of his pocket and tamped down some of the good American tobacco he always carried. “How far is it into Batna?”
    Belaid knitted his eyebrows. “Not far. Two, maybe three kilometers.” When he saw the puzzled look the American gave him, he added, “A mile, mile and a bit.”
    Tyrrell remained upbeat. “Well, that’s easy then. Lonnie, Come on, we’re hoofing it. Martini, you stay here and we’ll send some gas back for you. Marshall, are you joining us?”
    Reygasse’s cool had deserted him. He impatiently waved them away. “I’ll wait. I’m not entering Batna like some god-damned beggar.”
    The big American gave a suit-yourself shrug. “Lonnie, you coming?”
    Pond grabbed his knapsack and shouldered it in resignation. Offering a passable impression of Martini, he groused, “Monsieur le count say everything is good… The Count see to everything.” Brad patted his shoulder paternally.
    “Explorer’s lesson number one. Never trust those city experts for anything, and don’t take anything for granted. Let’s go.”
    “What’s that?” Alonzo pointed to an ancient heap of a car rattling towards them, geysers of dust shooting up in its wake. The car pulled up short and two disreputable looking Arabs immediately engaged Belaid in an animated mix of French, Arabic and wordless but explicit gestures.
    Pond followed the babble as best he could. Apparently de Prorok arrived at the hotel safe and sound—of course he did—and sent this bunch with gasoline. Of course, they only expected one bunch of Kafir idiots to run out of gas. They weren’t sure they had enough for two groups.
    “Are there any more of those idiots out there?” one of them asked, unaware or uncaring that the Americans might hear what was said.
    “No,