Chapter 8 Part IV Sections 30-34

When God created America, he gave her unique conditions.He filled America with coal mines.He made America full of subway mines.He gave her deep harbors, navigable rivers, fertile fields, and forests to cut down.He even poured gold into her rivers and streams. Most importantly, he gave her oil. Sometimes he lets the oil seep straight out, as if there is so much oil in the ground that it has to seep out.Sometimes he is very naughty.He's hiding oil where no one can think of it, but this is America, and if there's even a chance of getting rich, people will be looking, desperately looking, looking for oil.

He buried oil in California, he buried it in Texas, he buried it in Pennsylvania.He buried this thing—lots of it—under the icy waters of frigid Alaska. But this is America.When God decides which nation to bless, His gifts are generous.So even the less favored states are getting the treat.He put oil in Oklahoma, he put it in Louisiana, he put it in Kansas, he put it in Indiana, he put it in Kentucky. Also put the oil in Wyoming. Put abundance of oil in Wyoming. ＊＊ From somewhere in the train came a long whistle, and it slid across the open field.A train of carriages trembled and stopped noisy.Metal banged on metal.In an empty carriage at the rear of the train, an unpacked cotton sack slid from the roof and fell hard to the ground in a flat heap.

The blob cursed and wiped its head. Since hopping on his first van in New York, Tom has been shaken, littered, and hurled through no fewer than nine states.He felt as if the map of the continental United States had been carved into the bruises all over his body.Aside from the physical impact, the midsummer heat in the US turned the steel carriage into a massive furnace, and Tom drank all the water in Iowa, and worse, smoked all in Nebraska. smoke. He licked his dry lips with his dry tongue and massaged his head with his dusty fingers.Then, having completed his morning cleansing ritual as completely as possible under these circumstances, he stepped to the side of the dimly lit carriage and opened the heavy door.The bright Wyoming sun poured in.Tom sat on the side of the train, swinging his legs over the slightly shiny wheels.He put his feet out before the train moved again, and jumped off, but the train brakeman had never given him any trouble so far, and he didn't want any trouble at the moment.

The sad whistle sounded again from the locomotive of the train.There was a jolt as the train began to move forward.The floor of the car came back to life as a gigantic saucepan in which Tom was about to be shaken and tossed and jolted. What the hell. Tom still had - he guessed - not reached his destination, but he could see a road in the distance, and he had had enough of the free train journey.He dropped his only luggage, a pale green canvas bag, on the ground, and prepared himself for the jump.For a second or two he wondered if he had been wrong.The train was accelerating all the while, and the rail slope was rapidly moving away from an incline just a few feet from the accelerating wheels.Tom looked back.Everything he owns in this world is in the bag he just dropped.

He jumped down. He fell hard to the ground, rolled a few times, and then stopped.He cursed a few more times and sat on the ground for a minute or two, rubbing his ankles, listening to the train rumble away from him. Tom arrived in the United States as a second-class cattle mover.He was a drifter when he arrived in Wyoming.How he got there is irrelevant.Nothing of the past mattered anymore, not even the measly thirty-eight dollars that still sat in his pocket. Because Tom wasn't completely honest with the immigration officers at Ellis Island.He told them he came to America to drill for oil.That's the truth, but it's not entirely the truth.Tom didn't just come to drill for oil, he came to build himself a mega-scale oil property.He was going to build an oil empire that would match and exceed whatever Allen might discover in Persia.He wants to try, and he wants to succeed.

starting today. The road was too rough for horses, so Emery and Allen had to walk.The sun is bright, but there is no heat; the sky is blue, but cold.In the valley below 2,500 feet, the tents looked like dots, the horses were as tiny as fleas, and the people were almost invisible.Allen wants them to take a break.For the past five days, his men have had a miserable time with Emery's gang.During that time, they ate up the last of Allen's hoard along the way.For two days they had pretty much lived off what they had hunted: a few rabbits, a pigeon or something, yesterday a goat that broke its leg and was discarded by the shepherds.

Emory was very polite to Allen, but it was the kindness of a captor to a captive.At night, Emery would send four guards with guns outside the tent, and tie a brass bell around the neck of Allen's steed.These guards are not there to protect them.They're there to make sure no one escapes. And Emery hasn't revealed once where they're going, or why. ＊＊ Emery climbed up with athletic intensity, panting harshly and shortly.Allen was also working hard in thin air.His lungs began to ache and his heart began to beat faster.His hair and complexion were too light to suffer easily in the sun, even in the dim light at this altitude.He wore a wide-brimmed sunhat, which had been white but had turned a dusty gray.

As they climbed up, Allen was still trying to study the terrain.Whether or not Emery knew the worthwhile situation, it's safe to say that the valley he's chosen is a geologist's dream. First, it is exposed.There are some brown grasses at the bottom of the valley, and some tough but withered shrubs in the higher places.There is little to see but rocks.Rocks, dust, gravel, debris - mother earth without clothes. Second, the valley walls are like a sandwich of layers of rock that have all been cracked and revealed from deep within the surface.As he climbed up, Allen quickly turned his mind, trying to figure out the secrets of the surrounding rock formations.Oil or no oil?A gold mine or a hopeless pit?

They kept crawling. At first they followed the goat's tracks, but after the goat's tracks had vanished they continued, both upwards and forwards, rounding the steeps and bends of the valley wall.After another hour, Emery stopped.He sat down on a rock jutting out of the valley.They each brought a bottle of water, which Emery drank quickly.That little water wasn't enough, and Alan could have easily downed another two pints on the spot. "It's around there," gasped Emery.In this mountainside, followers were not around, so he gave up some of the leader's airs and found it unnecessary to always remind Alan of his own importance.

"How did you know about this place?" asked Alan, who had now realized that the Qashqai loved riding horses more than any other form of transportation. Emery laughed. "Two years ago the king was very angry because the tax collector returned to Tehran empty-handed. He sent an army of two thousand men and sixteen field guns to force us to pay taxes. We were ambushed there. They—" he pointed down to the bottom of the valley—"made them flee back to Tehran. We took fifteen hundred rifles and all the cannon. We kept the rifles, we returned the cannon because we didn't need them. .So I know the way."

They caught their breath and set off again, slowly and carefully this time.A slight slip could have dropped a hundred feet or more, and they scrambled forward on all fours.Allen's geology bag hit his thigh, and he wished he'd used his backpack for tools. Then, all of a sudden, here they are.Emery threw his little bag to the ground. "Arrived." He drew the long knife from his belt and began to chop the mountainside, where a line of sand separated two rocks of different colors.He chipped off the dry husk, and a shower of debris rustled to the foot of the mountain.Then, after the white outer layer had been chipped away, Emery dug the knife into the soft inner layer, and used the tip of the blade to pick out a small mound of gravel.Emery put his nose up and sniffed it, then handed it to Allen. Allen sniffed.It exudes victory.It smells of oil. "Drilling experience?" "No." "Experience in operating equipment?" "No." "Then you'd better tell me you're a blacksmith, my friend, because no eight-year-old I've ever met has more experience than you." Tom frowned. This was the sixth oil exploration team he had contacted since arriving in Wyoming, and his luck so far was as bad as the previous five.His forty-dollar fortune had dropped to eight, and his patience was leaving him at the same rate. "I can fix gear," said Tom, "and if your machines break, I can fix them." "Is this another way of telling me you're not a blacksmith?" There is an old water pump in the tall grass.The water pump has started to rust and has weeds growing inside. "I'll fix that," Tom said. The driller kicked the pump, "If you could fix this, do you know what I'd do? I'd throw the crap back in there. It's a piece of junk, boy, we don't need it .” A child came running toward them, stumbling across a rocky slope.Tall grass swayed in the valley, and the grass became thinner on the higher hillsides.The kid was wearing an old pair of khaki shorts with scrapes and dust on the knees. "Mr Budd, I've come to tell you that Jonah Matthews is such a fool that he drank half a pint of kerosene for whiskey. Now he's too ill to work." After passing the message, the child added, "He vomited so badly that I even saw something coming out of his nose." Tom looked at Bud. Bud looked at Tom. Tom raised an eyebrow.Bud let out a dry cough from his throat, then spit out a mouthful of phlegm, which he stared at as if annoyed by it. "Damn it," he said, "well, you can replace Matthews while he's sick. Two dollars and a half a day. From now on." "Okay," said Tom, "no problem." Bud jerked his head to the tall steel rig in front of them.A boiler belches billows of steam.Thirty feet of drill pipe swayed slightly in the rig.Tom stared at the scene, his pulse racing.After a moment of trance, he woke up and found that Bud was talking to him again. "Your name? What the hell did you say your name was?" "Callaway," said Tom, "Tom Calloway." Bud snorted, as if Calloway was the name he hated the most.He didn't say anything more, but walked towards the drill tower.Tom picked up his bag and followed.He now has eight bucks in his pocket and a job that probably won't last more than a day. But he doesn't care?Why should you care? His luck has come. The oil industry has a variety of stories. Sad, brilliant, shrinking from half-chance to no-chance, half-chance burst to oil gushing eighty feet from the top of the rig. The following story is one of Allen's favorites. In California, there are many places where oil is theoretically seeping the surface, polluting rivers and streams. In 1864, a geologist named Professor Silliman wrote a report on the geological situation.Reports claim an oil boom is imminent.Without delay Calpetroleum raised tens of millions of dollars and acquired the right to drill over a quarter of a million acres.Over the next two years, Calpetroleum, along with about seventy other smaller companies, drilled sixty wells in search of oil.The geologists were right.Oil appeared.A two-year intensive search has paid off well over 5,000 barrels of this precious fluid. But here is the key. The value of the oil was about $10,000.And acquiring them cost more than a million.While Allen was excited to find a hint of oil in Zagros, he knew a hint was meaningless.Drilling is pointless if he doesn't do it on a massive scale. ＊＊ For thirty-five days, Allen stayed at the bottom of the valley and nearby areas.Emery and his men held out for a day or so, quickly bored and were ready to leave.Before he could leave, Emery called Allen aside. "Are you going back here to drill?" "Drilling? Possibly, I hope." "Oil, is it very precious in England?" "That's right." "Would it be a lot of work to dig -- to drill -- for the oil?" "Huge jobs. Endless jobs. Drilling, gathering, pipelines, shipping." "And wealth?" "I hope so, of course I hope so." Emory nodded solemnly, "You won't forget, will you?" He meant, don't forget the person who "discovered" this place. "Yes, Muhammad, I will not forget." Emory stared intently at his men, his hands carelessly stroking the edge of his blade.This may be a subconscious action, but Allen knows its meaning very well.It doesn't matter whether Allen forgets or not.Mohammed Emery would return with fifty armed men to remind him of his debt. The two hugged in accordance with the Persian custom, and then Emery jumped on the horse lightly, and led his men to ride slowly towards the mouth of the valley, the horse's hooves kicked up a cloud of dust.When staying with Allen's gang, they ate every last morsel and stole everything that interested them.Allen had been forced to spend three hours the night before inventorying his surveying and geological gear to see how much had been stolen.After he made a list of important items, he took Emery aside and told him how much he had lost. "My people never steal from a brother," Emery said. "You must be mistaken." He changed the subject to talk about something else. The next morning, all the lost items Allen wanted to get back appeared on a white bandanna, which gleamed coolly in the sun.Emery made no comment on the miraculous reappearance of the items, and Allen knew he'd better not say anything.Emery asked his men to go out to buy food and spare blankets, because the cold winter was coming.At this time, the night is already very cold, and when it comes to real winter, it will be bitingly cold. Then the real geological work begins: mapping the length and depth of the reservoir, taking samples, mapping the curve of the valley and the structure of the outcrops, and exploring the sides of the valley.It was long and exhausting work, especially in such demanding and deteriorating conditions.A snowfall in early winter made them frown and resentful.There was a time when Allen slipped and slid down the mountainside. Although he was not injured at all, his precious copper theodolite fell to pieces.Another time, while crossing a river, a horse slipped and fell, and Alan's camera fell into the freezing water, never to be used again. At night, by the faint glow of coarse fiber wicks burning in suet, Allen made his maps and geological sketches.When he had finished his maps, he would write long letters to Lottie, telling her of his explorations, pouring out his confusion and doubts, describing his loneliness and longing.It was as if she really existed in the tent.Sometimes he could almost swear he smelled her: fragrant, funky, feminine.When the early hours of the morning came, he would put his maps and sketches in waterproof jars and his letters in one of the inside pockets of his personal saddlebag.When he got back to Tehran, he would take out all the letters—hundreds of pages in all—and burn them all. Lottie is a free woman now.He will not allow his love for her to ruin her life.It could easily ruin his life, but this is different. To destroy is to destroy his life. Jonah "Kerosene" Matthews returned to work three days later, but Tom's luck did not go away. On the day Matthews returned, another driller fell ill with a malignant abscess in the heel of his leg. fall.Tom's wages were quoted as the average driller, three and a half dollars a day, and he quickly became a valuable addition to Bud's small team. Tom is a quick learner.He learned how the boiler powered the "Kelly"--the rotating square shaft that was mounted on top of the drill pipe and was responsible for extending the bit four hundred feet.Tom learned how to add another length of drill pipe already in the ground, and how to deal with the large clods that had been excavated, and then extend the drill pipe again.He figured out how to stack thirty feet of drill pipe above the derrick as it came out of the hole, then pull out the drill bit to replace it.He figured out how to force liquid mud into the borehole so that the stone chips would float out as the drill continued to work.In short, he learned to "burrow," drill wells, and look for oil. For the first time in years, Tom felt happy. Happy, but not content. It is true that his property is increasing day by day instead of decreasing day by day.He now lives in a rough boarding house for seventy cents a night, including dinner.He was learning the trade under people who really knew it.But still... The team was led by Lyman Budd, a contract driller working for a group of investors based in Ohio.Nine miles away and across two valleys at the Nine Snake River, oil was discovered earlier this year.That area now produces nearly 1,500 barrels of oil per day, and the entire area is now being extensively explored.It's an exciting place to be, but, as far as Tom is concerned, here's the point: he's a lowly laborer working for someone else, and his boss is working for someone else, and these guys have some drilling rights, these guys Drilling rights might — just might — be worth some money. This is not enough. One Friday night, Tom and Lyman Budd trudged back to the boarding house, leaving the rest of the party several hundred yards behind. "Do you think we'll find oil?" Tom asked, his voice already very American. "I can't tell." "But you must have a hunch. You've been in this business long enough." Bud wrinkled his nose and spit. "There's definitely oil around here, I can say that. The Nine Snakes won't be the only place with oil. I'd say our chances are as good as anyone else's." "What would happen if you found oil?" Bud shrugged. "We found oil." "But what do you get out of it? What difference does it make to you?" "I'll get two percent of what's being dug up, no matter how much it's worth." "Two percent?" "A lot of people don't give anything." "For example, if you discover oil, you can produce two hundred barrels of oil a day. If the oil price is strong, you can get about four dollars, and if it is not strong, it is two dollars." "That's why they pay me by the day, whether they find oil or not." "Haven't you thought about drilling yourself a well?" As they talked, the orange sun slowly set behind the humped mountain.As the light fades, the grassy hills turn from green to blue to purple.Kerosene lamps began to come on in the boarding houses below—the valley was too remote to have electricity. "Who says I haven't done it myself?" "You did it?" Bud nodded and told Tom his story.Although Tom was still a novice, he had heard the same story a dozen times from more than a dozen oilmen.Bud quit his job, borrowed the drilling rig, bought some drilling rights with money, and hired a group of workers with change and promises.He starts to explore.Three thousand feet down in hard ground.His money was gone.Use his rig elsewhere.He sold the land and moved elsewhere.Eighteen months later, a drilling crew from a major oil company reopened his well, drilled another nine hundred feet, and found oil. "You can't make money drilling wells, I think," Budd said. "Too many people are chasing too little oil. You'd be lucky if you didn't find oil so quickly. Young people like you should go to a car factory or A radio factory, some promising careers." Tom shook his head.He didn't say anything, but he didn't take Bud's advice seriously.Bud didn't take his suggestion seriously either.He's an oil fan.Although he was working for someone else, he drilled as if he had to find oil within a week or die.He never stops while working.The only time it would slow him down was when the rotary table was spinning properly, the sound of the drill bit was fine, the pressure in the boiler was adequate, and there was a stack of thirty feet of drill pipe in the rig already in place, ready to be loaded as the bit descended . "Without oil, without spirits," Budd said, "this would be an unbearably dry country." Tom glanced sideways.Bard was referring to the Eighteenth Amendment—Prohibition—which had passed the House and Senate almost without controversy and was being ratified by every state.Come January, the production and sale of alcohol would violate not only the laws of the country, but the Constitution itself. They had approached the boarding house.The food served at that time was plentiful but extremely bad in taste.The only reason this place didn't get overturned in the riots was because of the huge amount of beer at the ridiculously low prices.The men's shouts and the strong smell of beer had wafted into the field wind.Tom pointed to the figure walking ahead of them in the dusk. "You think Uncle Sam tells them to quit drinking and they stop drinking?" Bud shrugged. He wasn't too interested in any topic not directly related to oil. "I guess they just got dry and thirsty." "That's really thirsty," said Tom. Bud answered something, and went inside, intending to clean himself up before the supper bell.Tom would normally scramble to get under the shower head, but this time he retreated outside, feeling the night air on his face, and staring at the stars starting to twinkle in the purple sky. It can cost about $2,500 to acquire, hire, and operate an oil rig.Cheap drillers like Bud, they're like the poor folks who bet ten dollars at poker.Tom wouldn't make that mistake.He won't drill a well until he's ready.He won't drill until he has enough cash.He always thought he could make some money off the oil, but that might not be the case.Maybe there are other ways.It doesn't have to be a safe method, but it has to be a fast and effective method. Tom nodded to himself.He wants to be fast, he doesn't need to be safe.His pulse began to quicken.He starts to run. Sir Adam looked at his son. Across Britain, this generation looks older than it really is.The war has deeply carved wrinkles on the young face.The look in the eyes of twenty may unsettle someone twice their age.And what about Allen?He is twenty-six years old.The war and the hardships of life in Persia made it easy to mistake him for being over thirty-five years old, or even older.The Persian sun and high latitudes had turned his face bronze, and it was hard to believe that he had ever been a fair-faced teenager.His hair had faded almost to white, and his eyebrows were almost gone. But there was something else on his face.A look that Sir Adam could understand but could not properly describe.Allen is still painfully in love with Lottie.Sir Adam gazed at him for another moment, then hurriedly returned his gaze to the papers.The map was laid out on a full-size pool table in the pool room at Whitcomb Manor.Although there was plenty of daylight outside, and the heavy brocade curtains had been drawn to the sides, the electric lights above the table were still trying their best to shine as much light on the map as possible. "It was astounding, it was brilliant." Allen nodded.He stayed in Zagros - surveying, prospecting, photographing, analyzing - until it was all done.Allen's hammer and sampling bag conquered valley after valley.He knew more about the geology of the northern region of Zagros than any other human being in history.Fossils, rocks and soil samples are stacked on the table. Sir Adam looked over the maps, flattening them with small stones.His own knowledge of geology was far less than Allen's, but it was enough to identify which terrain was highly profitable—and enough to know where there was no prospect of oil production at all.Most of the maps fell into the latter category, with Sir Adam gaining a point of anxiety for each one he looked at.His expression definitely gave away his concern. "We always knew it was going to be difficult," Allen said. "I never expected to find a lot of oil." "Well," Sir Adam agreed.He pulled out a map and put it on top.Painted on it are age-correct geological formations and structures that suggest there may be oil deposits below. "This round here. Anticline, maybe?" Anticlines refer to bow-shaped structures that are deeply buried in the ground.If the arch is made of good impermeable rock, and the underlying strata hold oil, then the anticline is the perfect place to pick oil—every oilman's dream. "Maybe, Dad. Probably not." Alan pointed to several signs on the map that indicated that the anticline was empty of oil—even if there had been oil there. "Maybe worth a try." "Maybe. But look at this." Allen took out a map that he hadn't taken out before.Shown on this map is the valley of Emory and the valleys to the east and west of this valley.There was a red cross on it--the only red mark on any map--and next to it was Alan's neat handwriting: "Oil Spill!" Sir Adam studied the map with increasing interest. "Have you discovered oil?" "I found enough oil to keep a kerosene lamp burning for about twenty-five seconds. Not even a teaspoon." "But it's still ... oil." "Yes, oil. Smells great. Not too much sulphur. Not too much tar. If there's oil in there, it's good quality oil. Light, fragrant, easy to refine." Adam looked at the map again.He's looking for structures that might hold promise: anticlines, salt domes, "horns" or monoclines.Nothing at all. "I know there are places in America where they drill for oil. They put drill pipe up the mountainside and let the oil come out. Even if there's no conventional drilling opportunity here, you've found a mountainside. Maybe a different way..." "Father, those oil mines only produce twenty barrels of oil a day. Thirty if you're lucky. Not bad if the market is on your doorstep, but our oil has to go all the way to England. If we don't There's no need to drill at all if you're doing massive mining. But you look at the map. You look at the map. There's something you don't see." Sir Adam studied the map.Even if he spends his life, he can't see what his son wants him to see. "Don't you see, father? Fault lines?" Faults are also the traditional way oil accumulates underground.If two rock formations break apart and then overlap each other to form some kind of top layer, there is a chance that oil will be found in the breach. "Fault lines? There's some variation in the geological contours to the east and west, but I don't see—" "Here, father, here," said Allen, grabbing a piece of powder from the cue rack, and hacked a thick blue line from top to bottom on the map, twenty-two kilometers wide. "I didn't see it at first either. I haven't seen it for two months. Like you, I'm also looking for narrow terrain, terrain a mile or two wide, and I've even looked for five to ten miles. But This fault is a standard fault. But it often disappears from view. It is hidden under snow, rockslides or continuous geological relief. But when you are far away from it - add up all the clues — let yourself see the obvious — and you'll see one of the largest natural reservoirs." Sir Adam stared at the thick blue line.His son was right.The fault is so huge that people tend to ignore it more than see it.But there it is: perfectly drawn. "My God, Alan, that's really a fault." "right." "And there used to be oil there." "right." Two people look at each other: father, son; old man and oilman.Allen had done all the prospecting he could, but the question remained: did the fault contain oil, or had it dried out?The world has far more faults than rich oil fields, and far more bankrupt dreamers than rich oilmen. "You're going to drill there?" "If you can." "Do you have money?" "No, not a penny." Allen knew that there was a large amount of oil stored under this fault.Unless he can find enough money to drill the well, it's going to stay there forever. "Are you going to borrow money?" "What to borrow? No one will lend it to me." "Then there's no other way, I think. Set up an exploration company and sell the shares. It's a pity to give up control, but it's inevitable, I can see it." "I don't sell." "Not for sale? But—" "I don't sell." Years of war and hardship had worn down Allen.His voice was that of a man: firm and decisive.His father opened his mouth—and closed it again.If Allen stubbornly refused to sell the shares, that was his business.When the time comes, he will understand that there is no other way to raise funds.There is no other way in this world. The oil is there. Four miles from the rig where Tom and the others worked, six miles from the boarding house, and a full sixteen miles from the nearest railroad, a small exploration Oil was dug out of the ground.The well produces only eighty barrels of oil a day: a good output, but not huge.However, it caused a huge stir.If there is oil in one place, there is likely to be oil nearby.This remote hilly region, where the plains meet the mountains, is suddenly crowded with newcomers. The drilling team arrived that day.The boarding house was packed with people.The road to the town was so muddy it was almost impossible to drive.The frost of early winter sharpened the blade in the north wind.Tom and the others wore thick woolen gloves and long drawers under their trousers when they went out drilling. ＊＊ The lights in the bar are dim red and always dim.It was full of oilmen: junior unskilled workers and advanced drillers.An evil-looking pianist plays melancholy melodies on the piano.The usual half-dozen whores sat in groups at the far end of the bar, having a drink together before the night's work began. Tom sat alone at the table.He was only in town for one night: to buy some drilling equipment at the quartermaster station, and return to the oil well the next day. As he looked around, the group of whores sitting in the corner suddenly burst into laughter.Tom grinned at them.As he laughed, one of the girls caught his attention more than the others.Her skin and hair are black.Her face was too angular to be considered beautiful in normal terms: her chin was too prominent, her nose was too thin, her forehead was too high.But there was something strangely vivid about her face.Her deep eyes were intelligent, alert, and disturbed, as of a sensitive and gifted person who has been forced to go through a difficult or dangerous period.Tom recognized that look.His years in prison had left the same mark on him.The girl attracted him, but also disturbed him. Tom grabbed a waiter who was passing by, and pointed to the girl, "Do you have wine in this store?" "wine?" "Yes, wine. They grow the grapes, squeeze the grapes, and bottle them. Wine." "Of course, there should be downstairs." "Could you get me a bottle of wine, and two glasses, and then ask that girl over there?" "That girl? That—" the waiter was about to say "bitch" or something like that, but he changed his words just in time. "The black-haired girl. Yes, now." After apparently a long rummage, the wine was brought up, followed by the girl.She and the other girls exchanged a laugh as she rose from the bar stool, then tugged on her top to make sure her cleavage was fully exposed.为了双重保险，她又解开一粒扣子，然后尽力让她那扁平的胸部显得丰满。 她走到桌边的时候，汤姆（出乎自己的意料）突然涌上一股怒气。 “我只是请你过来喝一杯，我没指望你会开始脱衣服。” 那姑娘没有坐下，仍然站在桌边。“这真是个打招呼的好办法。”这些词原本可以说得非常尖刻，但事实上并没有。她的语调是冷冰冰的，她的指责也很明显，但一点都不粗鲁。有部分原因在于她的口音，沙哑而带有中欧口音。 “我只是想请你喝杯酒。我没想……想……天啊，我没打算给你钱。”汤姆的声音在平和和挑衅之间游走。他的情绪也同样的不稳定。 那姑娘扣上扣子，然后把衣服整理成稍为正派的样子。她长长地看了汤姆一眼——他又一次注意到她的注视，那种几乎是在预料危险的注视——然后看了一眼她的朋友们。她坐了下来，先把屁股放到凳子上，然后将腿慢慢移到身边。这是很淑女的坐法，而不是一个微不足道的美国小镇上一个廉价妓女的坐法。她闻了闻葡萄酒，然后啜了一口。 “那样的话你应该买瓶好一点的酒。” 汤姆辩解地笑了笑，“他们只有这个。我已经厌倦了喝啤酒。如果你想的话，我可以——” 她微微一笑，“没事。我在开玩笑呢。我也厌倦了喝啤酒。” “汤姆·卡洛威。”汤姆伸出手。 “丽贝卡·卢易。”她说，“很高兴认识你。” 丽贝卡·卢易拥有高贵的血统。她是个来自立陶宛维尔纽斯市的说波兰语的犹太人。在战争期间，她们一家人被免去职务，剥夺财产，受到虐待，然后被关进监狱。但他们设法花钱让她和她二十岁的弟弟先是去了瑞典，然后又来到美国。他们1916年到了美国，然后被迫等了三年多才得到家中其他人的可靠消息。其他的兄弟要么是死了，要么就是在俄国哪个监狱里。她的父母都还活着，而且有望安全地定居在德国。她想让他们来美国，可他们觉得自己已经太老，世事也太过无常，所以不愿意再迁移。 “他们在那儿会过得很好，只要社会主义人士没有掌权。 “那你弟弟呢？和你一起过来的那个弟弟？” 丽贝卡的脸色一僵。“他来的时候就已经得了肺结核。这正是我们来这儿的主要原因。我很害怕他们不会让他入境，但是埃利斯岛上的医生虽然发现了他的病情，可他很同情我们，放了我们一马。” “那你弟弟呢，他……？” “他死了。我尽了全力，可是……”她耸耸肩，“肺病带走了他。两年前。” “对不起……”汤姆声音渐低，但他脑中突然闪过一丝想法，他的表情肯定也显露了这种想法。 丽贝卡回答了他没有出口的问题，“对，医药费很高。我欠了债。现在正在还债。我以为自己会厌恶出卖自己，可是，很显然，人什么都能习惯。我不需要同情。” 汤姆点点头，“好的，不同情。” “很好，那你呢？”丽贝卡突然而又果断地转变了话题，“你是英国人？” “对——或者说，不。以前是。现在是——” “对，现在你是美国人。我们不都是吗？我们刚刚跳下船，然后就：变！两千年的历史化为云烟。”她笑起来，“接着说。你以前是英国人。肯定也不是穷人，从你给人的感觉看。可你来到了这儿。没有家人。没有金钱。你现在干着体力活。为什么？肯定是因为坐牢，或者是债务，或者是——” “我做了两年半的战犯，差点死在里面。等我回去的时候英国已经没有任何属于我的东西。我宁可到这儿来当个穷人，也不愿回英国去拍国王的马屁。顺便告诉你一声，我很喜欢自己的工作。” “你是个战犯？对不起，我对你太不客气了。我道歉。” “没关系，没事。” “不，有关系，我讨厌自己的这种举止。对不起。” 他们喝完葡萄酒。丽贝卡抹了抹嘴，做了个鬼脸，“味道真可怕，不过还是谢谢你。” Tom laughed.葡萄酒确实很糟糕，但和一个懂葡萄酒的人分享它却是件愉快的事。但丽贝卡的态度又转变了。她并没有看表或是站起来走开，但她很明确地在暗示她该回去工作了。汤姆甚至意识到，她在暗示他如果他改变主意愿意付钱买下她，她当时当地就会答应。 汤姆对卖淫没有任何意见。在法国的时候，他一般都能找到不用他付钱就跟他上床的姑娘，可当他找不到这样的姑娘时，他会想都不想地掏钱购买这种享受。可丽贝卡，从一开始就是不一样的。他不知道为什么，也没有真正询问自己这个问题。她让他不安。她的职业态度惹恼了他，让他生气。 “要回去工作了？”他的话里带着不必要的粗鲁。“应该是大获丰收的一晚，嗯？”他指了指一些年轻工人，他们已经喝得大醉，开始色迷迷地盯着角落里的那些妓女。 “你答应过我不同情我。而这就是你的另一种态度，是吗？ “该死，这只是一个行业，不是吗？这有什么错？那边那个家伙看上去很强壮。先跟他快点干完，在这地方关门前你应该还能再找到两个客户。” 丽贝卡冷冷地看着汤姆，然后刻意解开衬衫上的两粒扣子。她站起来，扭着屁股走向他指的那个人。她在那儿站了片刻，手放在屁股上，故意做出煽情的样子，然后显然是被那人急切地邀请着坐下，附近一群喝醉的工人爆发出色情的大笑。汤姆看着这一切，一种奇怪的混合着妒忌、愤怒和困惑的情绪涌上来。他把一些钱摔到桌上，然后重重走出酒吧。 他出门的时候，整个城镇都已经变了样。空气一直很寒冷，而现在正下着大雪，整个街道都变成一片雪白。一个原本沿着马车小道行进的马队从刚刚上冻的泥泞中走出来，走到主道上，马队里传来一阵咒骂声。汤姆呆呆地站在那儿看着这一幕。 他需要钱，而且马上就需要。现在，他第一次知道了该怎么去挣到钱。 英国波斯石油公司正从最初的小规模经营发展成为世界上的主要石油公司之一。这一年，它将会钻探并运走一百五十万吨石油。它在阿巴丹的精炼厂正逐步成为世界上最大的精炼厂。 财务经理伸出他的手。这是一只瘦小干瘪的手，握手时毫无力气。艾伦用力摇了摇这只手，然后坐下。盛在精美瓷器里的茶水送了上来。财务经理手忙脚乱地弄着茶杯和茶碟，就像一个跟主教一起饮茶的老处女。艾伦看上去就像一个被晒黑的波斯大汉，他的手因为长期呆在扎格罗斯而变得粗糙。 “用地权，对，用地权，”经理尖声说道，“我们全都想要，这是当然的。一分为二的用地权……嗯，这对我们来说是个恼火事。我没法用更强烈的字眼来表述——不过，对，绝对是个恼火事。” 艾伦点点头，“这件恼火事我可以帮你们解决。” “可是，你知道，从另一方面来说，我们的地质人员说南部地区真的什么都没有，而从我自己的观点看来，付钱给波斯皇帝买来毫无用处的用地权真的没有任何经济意义。” “我很明白。我只是想给你们投标的机会。” “投标？投标？你是说有投标者？” 财务经理的声音接近于尖叫。他在激动中将茶水溢到了茶碟上。茶水形成了一个圆形的小湖，就像一湖石油。 ＊＊ 成功有时来自运气，有时来自环境，有时纯属意外。而对国际石油界两大巨人之一的荷兰皇家壳牌石油公司来说，成功源自一个人：一个名叫亨利·德特丁的荷兰人。 现在，德特丁正一脸难以置信地盯着艾伦。 “波斯南部？波斯南部？这个国家的南部？ “没错。从代拉姆港到波斯波利斯，以及以南的所有地方。” 德特丁有着英国乡绅的彬彬有礼。他在战争时期的行为非常倾向于英国。但是，谈到商业时他的态度会变得很唐突，甚至是粗鲁。 "right." “当然了，你不能指望我们依靠你的勘探记录。你可能什么都会说。” “我只记录真实的情况。”艾伦冷冷地说。他是一个英国绅士，不习惯听到别人暗示他可能在撒谎。他的冷淡还有另一个原因：问心有愧。他的地图上没有虚假的东西，但也没有完全包括真实的情况。尤其是，他现在分发出去的地图副本上抹去了某个红色叉号以及旁边的手写体“油漏”。 “对，对，对。” “你会发现，除去一些我修改过的细节，我的报告完全符合之前的调查——只是更加详细。我很愿意邀请你们派出自己的专家，只是……” “是吗？什么？只是什么？” “对不起，我说得太快了。如果你们想让自己的地质学家再勘测一下该地区，那你们怎么合适就怎么办。” “可你刚才要说的是别的话。只是。只是什么？” “我想说的是还有其它两家公司对这一交易也有一些兴趣。他们可能愿意行动得更快速一点。” “其它公司？”德特丁那胡子修理得整整齐齐的小脸突然生动起来。“谁？啊！英国波斯。天啊，我知道他们急着想把我们甩下。天啊，对，这不亚于一掌掴在他们脸上，什么？壳牌石油公司跟波斯皇帝建立友好的关系，而且谁知道北部地区的胜地权会是什么结果……不过你说有两家公司。两家。还有一家是谁？”他的眉头皱起。“不会是美国人吧，不会吧？不会是——” ＊＊ 美孚公司是规模最庞大、力量最雄厚、资产最富足、态度最强硬的公司。 他们派驻在伦敦的代表是一个大下巴的美国人，名叫赫克尔贝瑞·格兰特，在被洛克菲勒的企业“压迫”至死之前曾经有过自己独立的精炼厂。格兰特加入了敌人的阵营，迅速崛起。 “相当不错的地质工作。你自己做的？” Allen nodded. “据我们所知，那儿没有太多的石油。可能有一点，但不太多。” 艾伦点点头，“也许你说的对。” “你并没有很积极地推销自己，伙计。你也不认为自己的用地权值太多钱？” “重要的不是我觉得它值钱，是别人觉得它值钱。” “可我们得先研究一下这个，对吧？这是你来的第一家公司吗？” “很抱歉，格兰特先生，也许我应该这么做。不幸的是，有两家离我更近的公司对这个用地权也很感兴趣。” “英国波斯石油公司，我能猜到——可是，见鬼，你指的是壳牌石油公司，是不是？” “昨天这个时候我正和亨利·德特丁在一起。” “德特丁，天啊，”这个高大的美国人将硕大的拳头重重击在桌上。桌上的装饰品中有一个八英寸高的鱼尾形钻塔，已经破旧不堪，凹坑里满是灰尘。桌子在格兰特的拳头下开始颤抖，钻塔滚到了桌边。艾伦接住它，把它放了回去。 “谢谢。八五年的时候带着这玩意儿曾经挖出过喷油井。那井的名字叫莫利·莫兰二号。最好的时候一天能产三百五十桶。亲爱的老莫兰。”格兰特用手掂着钻塔，深思着，“德特丁，嗯？”