Chapter 9 Part IV Sections 35-39

Christmas Eve. A second oil was found on the hill, eighty barrels a day, and this time the lucky well was within a mile and a half of a Lyman Budd well.The excitement was indescribable, but the drilling conditions had gone from difficult to nearly impossible.The snow was thick and the cold was threatening.On windy and snowy days, no one leaves the house.On clear days, drilling crews start at dawn, doing their best in the short days and freezing cold. Tom backed out. "What did you say?" he asked Bud after Tom told him. "I'm leaving for a while. You don't seem to need all your workers in this weather."

Bud shook his head.In theory, Tom was the most junior in his engineering team, but in reality Tom was faster, fancier, and smarter than everyone else. "Does the cold frighten you? I guess it doesn't snow in England, maybe..." Bud's voice gradually dropped, and he tried to recall whether England was a snowy country, "It's not like here anyway." He chose the most Safe to say. "I don't mind the cold, Lyman. But I think you've taught me enough about drilling. I guess it's time I went out and made some money." "You want a raise? I guess I could give you up to four dollars a day. In fact, I think it could be up to four dollars and a half."

But Tom didn't want a raise.He doesn't want to be employed.He came to America for his fortune, and he had waited long enough.He drank the last beer with his master, shook his hand warmly, and walked briskly out of the valley to the end of the railway. There he found what he was looking for.The pubs on Christmas Eve were loud and noisy, and the festive atmosphere only made the men more aware that in four weeks Uncle Sam would lock up all the beer barrels and whiskey bottles from then on.Tom had gone early enough before Rebecca Lewy had started her night work.Tom bought a bottle of wine at the bar, then caught her eye and held it up high.She smiled and walked over.This is their sixth time drinking wine together.Tom never offered to buy her for sex.Since the first time, she has never expressed this kind of expression again.

"Merry Christmas," he said when she sat down. "Merry Christmas to you." She said "you" very low, reminding Tom that the holiday was his, not hers.He suddenly wondered if she was reminding him on purpose.He felt a brief moment of irritation, but he quickly suppressed it. "I resigned today." "What? You quit? Quit your job?" She taped to the table so she could hear better.Her hair smelled warm and soft, but besides the fragrance lurked a scent of cheap perfume that was as much a part of her profession as low-cut blouses and black stockings.

Tom nodded. "Why? I thought you loved your job. Oil: Isn't that why you're here?" Tom pointed outside. "We can't drill in this weather. Not really. We have two days off for every day we work." "Then what are you going to do?" Tom grinned, "I think I've got some ideas." He filled her glass and changed the subject, "Listen, are you going to work tonight?" She nodded. "Don't do it. There's a nice restaurant down the road. I'll take you there. You should rest on Christmas Eve." She hesitated for a moment.Tom could see she was wondering if it was worth sacrificing an evening's earnings to have dinner with him.She glanced at her friends—the other whores in town—and then she turned and smiled and said, "Thank you, I'd love to."

They left the bar without finishing their drinks.A workman who knew Tom recognized his companion and whistled obscenely as they headed out.Tom immediately froze, clenched his fists and was about to go back to the bar when Rebecca put her hand on his arm and pulled him back. "Don't fight!" she said sternly. "I can't stand fighting." Tom turned and walked out with her. "Don't you mind? That idiot whistle? Those images in his head?" "Thomas," she said Tom's name in a low, soft Eastern European accent, "Thomas, I sold myself. This is my way of being. This way, people will whistle at me, but I can pay back. Debt. It's not permanent."

The snowflakes fell gently, and her long hair began to be covered with little snowflakes.Her deep eyes looked firmly into his.He met her gaze for a moment, then looked away. "Okay. Then that's my Christmas present to you. I'm not going to hit that whistling idiot." It was cold outside and they hurried to the restaurant.The food isn't particularly tasty, but it's not bad.They chatted all the time.Rebecca's father used to be a pharmacist and owned a large pharmacy in a relatively prosperous neighborhood of Vilnius.When talking about life at that time, she casually mentioned that they once hired two maids to help.Tom was struck by the similarities in their experiences.She: Affected by the war, she left her hometown and left her wealthy home, and now she has no family.He—though he was an English gentleman, not a Lithuanian Jew—his story was similar.They ate steak, fried potatoes and shredded cabbage, then downed a sticky date-palm Christmas cake with wine and coffee.

"Thank you, Thomas. I feel like a woman about to make a change, which is a joy." Tom threw some money on the table. "Come on, I have something to show you." They walked down the snowy road, and by moonlight and Tom's flashlight, they walked together into the yard behind the railroad depot.Tom led her up a side path to a small wooden shed with a padlock.He took out a key, unlocked it, and pushed open a door.He shone a flashlight in. In the shed were a pile of whiskey crates and four barrels full of beer, covered with straw to keep out the frost. "That's why I quit," he said. "Prohibition, in my opinion, is a gold mine. If you're willing to dig."

Rebecca looked rather disappointed, even depressed. "You resigned for this?" "Yes, and I know how to find more booze. But look, I have a proposal. Getting booze is one thing, but selling it is another. Given your profession, I think You're the best person to sell them." Rebecca stepped back.Tom could not see her face clearly in the dark.Her shoes slipped once or twice on the icy ruts.Tom held out an arm, but she swung it away.When she did speak, her voice bordered on accusation. "Why? Why are you doing this? Why can't you leave me alone?" "What? What do you mean? I'm sure I'll give you a commission. Don't you want to pay off your debt? I can't believe you'd rather...do what you're doing than sell a little booze."

Rebecca began to walk as fast as she could along the path.In the dark, she couldn't see where she was going and almost fell down.Tom slammed the shed door, locked it again, and ran to her.He had an argument in his head to make, but she spoke before he could. "Thomas, Thomas, can you stop messing with my job? Most of the time you hate my job. You want to fight people, you get mad when I work. Now... now you want to use Me. You're trying to use my body to sell you wine. You're not going to get better... No, no, you are better. But... I'm sorry, Thomas, I'm sorry, I should go back."

She pushed away his flashlight, his arm, his apology, and stepped away from him into the night.Not once did she look back. In the middle of the night, it was raining.Gas lamps illuminated the muddy streets.The taxis that were still doing business were moving very slowly, their wheels hissing through puddles. Allen walked slowly. The New Year's celebrations of 1920 have faded, and with it a cold, wet January.Alan had just come from Guy's, and he had never liked Guy's hospitality very much, but he was too poor to refuse it.Guy is surrounded by a group of wanton women and wealthy men whose consumption and absurdity far exceed Alan's appreciation. He longed to escape.He loved desolate Zagros.The hardships he endured there were nothing compared to what he had experienced in the war, and the solitude suited his mood better.Tom was dead, Lottie was out of reach, London seemed like a wasteland--and Guy's house was like the flashy and dead center of this wasteland.He would flee to Hampshire and Whitcomb if he could. He was walking west along Piccadilly, his head bowed and his hat tilted to keep the rain from dripping down his neck.Ahead of him, the doorman of a restaurant pushed open a door, and the bright light of electric lights spilled onto the wet sidewalk.A group of young people about the same age as Allen came out, laughing, joking, and humming the vaguely dance music coming from inside.Allen stepped aside when one of the women bumped into him and almost fell because he didn't see him. Ellen grabs her and straightens her, making her stand.She was tall and slender, with her hair cropped very short, in one of those ultra-chic "ear bobs" that Ellen hated so much. "I'm so stupid. Thank you, whether you're—" The woman turned around.The light fell on her face.It's Lottie. Alan didn't know what expression was on his face, but Lottie's face showed an expression that looked like shock, maybe longing, maybe even love.He walked up to her. But then her expression changed.Allen stopped.He must have been mistaken.Lottie never had any makeup on her face but her usual bright easygoing smile.He stood on the street with the corners of his mouth slightly open. "Oh, my God, it's Alan Montagu! Dear Alan, how are you? You see, this is my favorite oilman, Alan Montagu. Soon Gonna get horribly rich, and he's digging for oil in the Persian desert. Honey, I hope you've found the vat thing." There was nothing in Lottie's words, absolutely nothing, there was no sign that Allen could think that she still liked him.Worse, she seemed to have forgotten that the two of them had ever been deeply in love. "Oh, my God, it's Alan Monta!" What the hell kind of greeting was that?True, she still called him darling, but she called everyone darling.There was nothing in her words or in her voice to confirm how he had felt about her before. Allen flinched in shock. This was not the Lottie of whom he had written so many letters in his Persian tent.His Lottie was the steady, conscientious, inspiring nurse in the critical injury center.His Lottie would rather roam the green grass of Hampshire than choose dances and parties.There was another thing that bothered him too.There was a man standing beside her, and although he didn't touch her, he didn't show any less ownership.He looks smart, superficial and rich. "Come play with us, Ellen dear, will you? We're going to the Medusa Club for one last drink before we go dancing. Brian Rafferty and the others will be there too. Surely you remember They? Ned made a fortune mining, you will have a lot to say. Come on!" Allen shook his head and murmured an excuse - I have to get up early tomorrow, I feel very tired, and I have a cold.The man next to Lottie moved a little further away, as if realizing that Allen was not a potential threat. Allen apologized again, promised to contact her again, and ran away. On January 20, 1920, the United States of America, with its Constitution and the formally expressed will of its people, began the noblest attempt in the history of the world.Across the country, from the snows of Montana to the deserts of Texas, from the blue Pacific to the gray Atlantic, bars are closing, wine merchants are shutting down, and the demon in the bottle—Barley John—finally dies. In theory. The only slight problem with this theory is that all over the country, from the snows of Montana to the deserts of Texas, from the blue Pacific to the gray Atlantic, there are boozers like Tom, and others. Equally eager to buy alcohol. ＊＊ After selling his bootleg for two hundred and ninety dollars—fifty percent more than he paid for it—Tom didn't restock.He hopped on a freight train and headed north to the border, where Canadian businessmen were shocked to find that selling whiskey had just become the most powerful and profitable industry in existence.Tom wandered around and found a wholesaler who knew the new market well. "What kind of outer packaging do you want?" "Huh? Boxed, I suppose," said Tom. "Yeah," said the wholesaler, as if talking to a retard, "I can pack it in the original Haig and Haig box if you want. Show the guys you The thing is the real thing." Tom saw the problem.The wine has to be shipped back through customs, and at this point in time, there's really no reward for advertising. "I've got a case of shoe polish," said the wholesaler, "and a case of ham. To-morrow I'll have a carload of condensed milk." He kicked a pile of empty wooden boxes."Joe Brearley's Best Products - Secret of the Black Leather Shoes" is neatly engraved on the side of each case.Next to it is a stack of boxes that says "Alberta Ham & Meats Ltd. Our Taste is Our Signature." Tom grinned. "I like ham," he said. "Ham." This choice is almost fatal. Thirty-six hours later, a van pulled up slowly in a forested valley, soot and snow billowing in the air.Outside a log cabin, the Stars and Stripes hangs motionless on a flagpole.The front of the hut is painted with a line of words: "U.S. Customs".Behind customs, a small village clusters around the station like a flock of chickens afraid of the night. Tom was riding legally this time, and he stepped out to stretch his legs and watch his suitcase go through customs.When the United States Congress decided to prohibit alcohol, it believed so much in the law-abiding nature of the people that it took no serious measures of enforcement.Customs has not stepped up inspections.Nobody thought the presence of federal agents was necessary at all. Tom wasn't worried at all. He jumped up and down the platform to warm his feet.He thought of Rebecca.The two of them settled their quarrel and became friends again. However, she upset him.He doesn't find her attractive - at least he doesn't think he does - and half the time he finds her conversation irritating.Even so, as soon as he left her on his front foot, he would think of her again on his back foot.He can't explain his fascination with her and gets annoyed with himself for it. He came out of the station and bought a candy bar and some coffee at a "Church Creamery".The man serving the coffee said, "Praise God, sir. A dime." Tom passed over the dime, but didn't bother to praise God. "Flyer?" The man pushed a flyer on the counter. "The True Path to Atonement. It's free." Tom leaned over the counter, "Do you want to know the real path to redemption?" "Ok?" "Oil," said Tom, "oil and wine." The man snatched back the flyer angrily. "God loves repentant sinners. God—" "God is a measure. But sinners prefer to drink." Tom threw back the coffee and went off with the sugar. Inside the train, customs officers are still busy filling out forms.As far as Tom could see, not once did they open any boxes on the train. A scrawny dog ​​ran up and down, raising one leg next to a pile of boxes marked "Saskatchewan Fur and Leather Ltd."Its yellow piss immediately started to freeze.Tom paced up and down the platform, walking fast enough to keep warm.The customs officers were not in a hurry.The dog sniffed another stack of boxes containing Vancouver smoked fish.The fish sat right next to Tom's case of whiskey. Across the platform, a customs officer watched the dog curiously.Tom looked at the customs officer.The dog looked at nothing but his fish.The man watched for another moment, then walked slowly towards his fur-coated superior and whispered something to him. Tom trotted up and down the platform again, and then his stomach tightened. that dog! The dog was technically standing next to a dozen boxes of prime Canadian ham, but he didn't even bother to smell the ham.The dog is a four-legged, flea-ridden tester, and Tom is about to reveal himself. For a moment, fear numbed him.If he got caught, his booze would be confiscated, sure, but it didn't really matter that much.Important: To become a U.S. citizen, Tom had to live in the U.S. for five years without committing any felonies during that time.If Tom was caught smuggling whiskey, he would be prosecuted and sent back to England.It would be the worst fate in the world, and it was only minutes away from him. The two customs officials talked for a while, then walked towards the dog and the so-called crate of ham. Tom froze for another moment.Then he gets into action.He dashed out from the platform and ran back to the church milk cold drink snack shop. "God bless, bro—" the man said, and then realized who his customer was. "Oh, it's you." "I've seen the light, brother," said Tom, "praise God." The man was dumbfounded. "What, really? Praise God, brother. Yes, I told you, God prefers to see sinners—" "Damn right. Can I have some leaflets?" "You want? Really?" "Praise God!" said Tom. "Praise God!" The man pushed the stack of leaflets on the counter forward.Tom grabbed a whole bundle and dropped a dollar in exchange. "I've got to spread the good news. There's a lot of joy in heaven today." "Wow, that's right, bro. You don't—" But Tom was gone.When we returned to the station, the customs officers had already walked to the box.The dog had done its work and was led aside.A third customs officer was walking across the platform with a prying roller and an iron bar. Tom rushed towards them, his breath freezing in the air. "God bless you," he gasped, "and all praise of others will fall into the eyes of God." The two customs officers looked at each other and smiled.One of them whispered a joke, prompting a burst of laughter.The senior one said, "Thank you, boy. We need all the compliments we can get on a day like this." "Need my help, sir?" Tom asked in a more normal tone. "Help?" The customs officer flipped through the manifest and customs statement with his gloved hand. "Are you Calloway?" "Thomas Calloway," said Tom, putting his hand over his heart, "my earthly business is importing Canadian meat products. My spiritual business is saving human souls. I am at your service in both." The smiles on the faces of the three people deepened.The man with the prying roller put the prying roller aside and said, "What about Prohibition? Can souls be saved from that?" "Isn't this liquid that lures people out of their homes the devil? It infects people with all kinds of vices and gambling, it tears a family apart, and makes wives and mothers miserable." For the first time, suspicion appeared on the faces of the customs officers.Tom took out the flyer and handed it to them. "The true way," intoned Tom, scanning the flyer as fast as he could while looking as though he had chanted it a thousand times. "Which would you choose, the Temperance Angel or the Drinking Devil? Seraphim or satan demon at the gambling table?" The customs officers laughed so hard they could hardly breathe. They put their hands over their mouths and looked aside.The man with the pry roller looked questioningly at his superior, who shook his head.The man put the pry roller next to the pile of boxes. The supervisor tried to keep his face as serious as possible, then said, "Excellent flyer. We will definitely study hard." He turned away. Tom let out a long breath. "Do it, brother. Praise God." For their sixth birthday, Jack Cleary had given Ellen and Tom three puppies, white and tan spaniels.These little guys are strong, playful and rowdy.They also like to fight back and forth.If a small piece of cloth is thrown between the three of them, they will slap it for hours.They growl.They tug desperately.They try to win the cloth by subterfuge and, if necessary, by force.When the winner is decided, the winner will drag the cloth head to a secret corner, smell it casually - and then ignore it. What matters is not the loot, what matters is not being defeated. like now. None of the three big oil companies actually liked the geology of southern Persia.The world is so big, there are many places that have not been explored.No one has yet drilled an oil well in the Arabian Peninsula.Large tracts of land in the United States are still virgin land.The rich resources of Mexico and Venezuela are still buried in the ground.Compared to all of these, southern Persia would be low on anyone's list. Even so. British Persia felt threatened.Shell's Henry Deterding was obsessed with Mobil.And at Mobil, the idea of ​​keeping Shell at bay was too tempting to refuse. Each of them offered a price. three dogs.Piece of cloth. Allen listened to their bids, then politely turned them all down. ＊＊ And keep rejecting until their bid hits the max. The Shell and Mobil bids were so close that Allen couldn't help but wonder if each company had spies in the other's back room.But neither of them was the highest bidder.Probably the biggest gainer—and the biggest loser—was British Persia, a fact that their chairman, Charles Greenaway, was well aware of. Greenaway reached for some cigarettes and handed them to Alan.This is their last meeting.Allen knew he had to make a deal, and at his own risk.If Greenaway's price is not high enough, it will be bad luck for Allen.You can't get a better deal anywhere else. "Bad habits," he said, "can't be changed. Don't want to. Do you want a stick? No. Very good. Now, listen, we want your share of the land. You know it, and so do I That. It shouldn't have been divided in the first place. Darcy's damned move. The Emperor of Persia wouldn't have given half the country to another fellow. We'd have trouble. Everybody's had trouble. Trouble and expense. " Allen nodded, it was not his turn to speak yet. "It's a matter of patriotism. Shell Oil, a good company, a decent company, treated us well during the war, but let's face the fact that they're 60 percent owned by the Dutch. So, it is not a good thing to bring this kind of mix into our country. It will only mess things up. Also, if the Yankees go there, what will those guys say in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs-let alone the Indian office, this I don't need to tell you. I'm afraid it's going to be bad. Very bad." "I understand very well." "We know, and they're certainly interested, and we've heard, from... well, very solid leads, if I may say so." Allen nodded, happy that he had guessed these espionage activities correctly. "Yeah, I have to admit I was very pleasantly surprised," he whispered. "My thoughts now are that a young man like you really needs some adventure. Responsibility. You remind me of myself when I was your age, really. Sure, I'd love to buy your tenure, but We should talk about what you'd be good for here at the Anglo-Persian Company. Maybe with one of our geology guys, maybe with our production team, you'd do well. Your war record, your geological knowledge, very Great. Just what we need. Put you in charge of a few rigs and see what you can do." "It's a very polite proposal." "Not at all, not at all," Greenaway's cigarette had burned to his fingers, and he extinguished it casually, leaving some still smoking ash on his fingers. "Then what do you say? We could buy your land for £70,000 - £68,000 more than it's worth, I'd say - and sign you up right away on our production line. I'm very happy with my decision, very much." Allen carefully controlled his expression.The next highest bid was £60,000 from Shell Deterding, and he was pretty sure they couldn't raise it any higher.His game of three dogs and one piece of cloth had reached its limit, and it was time to call it a day.Allen frowned and asked for a cigarette.Greenaway offered him a cigarette, making no secret of his impatience.Allen lit his cigarette and smoked thoughtfully. "I understand your consideration of British interests," he said, "but I shall soon be in financial difficulties. If you say seventy-five thousand . . . " Greenaway punched the table, "Fine, fine, seventy-five thousand." "I appreciate your job offer, but before I start, there's something I'd like to try." "yes?" "It's related to the land use rights I sold." "yes?" "There is an area twenty kilometers long and ten kilometers wide that I'm interested in. I want to lease this land from you. All the oil I find there will be mine. If no oil is found, the land ten years from now will be mine. and the land will be returned to you." "Damn it!" Greenaway was stunned by Allen's advances. "God, Montagu, you've gone too far. Where's that land? Map, map, where's the goddamn map?" He snapped A button was pressed on the desk, and a secretary ran in. "Mrs Parker, help me get some geologists over, will you? Reynolds, Camberley, Keegan, Lewis, whoever. Right away, please, right away." The secretary ran out.Greenaway found the corresponding map and unfolded it. "Here," Allen said.He took a pencil from Greenaway's desk and marked the corners of his prized piece of ground—the Emory Fault, as he had named it.Greenaway frowned at the map, muttering "Damn, damn" over and over again.Moments later, three geologists knocked on the door and entered, all with the deep brown skin of the profession. "Wait outside, will you, Montagu?" ＊＊ Allen waited an hour.He wanted a cigarette, but his nasty lungs (always getting worse with London smog) couldn't take it.Finally, the door was slammed open.It's Greenaway. "Five years. You're given five years to find the oil. If you can't find it, give us the land back." "very good." "You sign the contract as soon as we write it. Later today or early tomorrow. No more contact with those Shell and Mobil guys." "very good." "And your land use rights are only sold for 70,000 pounds, not a penny more, if you want to share a piece of land." "I understand. Seventy thousand pounds." "Even seventy thousand pounds is too much, I tell you." "That's a generous amount, sir, thank you." "Also, if you don't find oil, I want you to work for us, hear? Five years, just five years. God, you're blackmailing." Allen left their building and squinted into the sunlight.He had five years and £70,000 to fulfill his promise to Tom.Too little money, too little time.Alan thought of Tom in that destroyed basement that day, just before their first assault at the Battle of the Somme.Tom had promised he would be careful, but what was a promise in war?Allen had promised he'd drill for oil, but he wasn't even sure he'd have the money to dig a well before his money ran out.His future seems hopeless... His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of boots running towards him behind him.He turned and found himself facing a face flushed with anger and a black beard that covered half his face. "My God, it's a robbery," cried the man. "You found oil there, didn't you? My God, I tell you, it's a robbery." "Sir, who are you?" Allen put some distance between him and this person. "Have you, sir?" "what do I have?" "Find oil, damn it, oil." "You're a geologist for the British Persian Company, aren't you?" "Yes, that's right. Please forgive me, George Reynolds. Please forgive me." The heat on Reynolds' face faded a little, and he held out his hand.Reynolds was a stocky northerner, certainly ruddy most of the time.He was solid and powerful, like a piston ready to fire.Allen shook his hand warily. "Did I drill for oil there? No." "I didn't mean that. A little penetration. A hint. Oil drift in the water. A breath. A trace of asphalt. A little smell, please." Allen swallowed and took something out of his pocket.It was a small waxed canvas bag with a small handful of sand in it.He handed the bag to Reynolds, who held the bag to his nose and sniffed it.This is Emory sand.Its smell has faded since it's been in Allen's pocket for months, but it's still noticeable anyway. "I knew it. The fault. No one else saw the fault. I tried to tell them, but they wouldn't listen." Allen began to secretly think that Reynolds' turbulent life attitude was very interesting, but he remained indifferent, "Maybe they are right. From a geological point of view, there must be a fault, but that does not mean that there must be oil. .I found these oil sands in outcroppings far above where oil might be stored today. It's a very risky bet, a very, very risky bet." "right." Reynolds was not yet willing to return the bag to Allen.He was standing under an eaves off the street when a delivery truck honked to get him out of the way.He can't stop sniffing. "Not much brimstone." "Yes, not much. Reynolds squeezed the sand with his hands, letting it leak through his fingers. "Very light, very light texture. Not too much tar." "I think so." "It will be refined into very good oil." "right." Reynolds handed the bag back without looking away. "You'll be drilling there, for sure." "right." "With your seventy thousand pounds?" "That's all I have." "You need more money." "Maybe." "Many, many, many." "Maybe." Reynolds nodded, his eyes fixed on the cloth bag, "If there is an oil field there, it may be a large oil field." "maybe." "Okay then, I'm sorry I rushed over yelling." "It doesn't matter." Reynolds was standing halfway on the sidewalk.The streets are busy.Every delivery guy and motorist was yelling and honking their horns.Reynolds didn't care at all. "Yeah, well, I'm sorry anyway. Goodbye. Good luck." He shook Alan's hand again.He grabbed Allen's hand like he was holding a drill pipe.He walked away heavily, as if sending himself to the execution ground.Alan watched him walk away, thinking that Reynolds must be a very strange man, and then he turned and walked towards Waterloo Station to catch the train to Hampshire. He hadn't gone far when the thud of those boots interrupted him again.Without looking back, he said, "Well, Mr. Reynolds, what are you going to accuse me of this time?" Reynolds stood in front of him, gasping, "No, that's not it. I'd like to work for you, if I could. In Persia." Allen smiled -- laughed -- and reached out to his first employee. "Drive! Drive! Drive—!" The drivers whipped the horses to try to get them out of the marsh that was the way up the mountain.Tom was a natural driver, and he wanted to try his hand at the whip, but a driver knew his horse and the trail.Behind the carriage, all kinds of large steel plates shook and made loud noises. "Drive! Drive! Drive!" The driver's voice was losing confidence, and his horses were losing theirs at the same rate. "I'm going down," Tom jumped into the mud. A wheel of the wagon got stuck on a rock.Tom tried to move the stone, didn't move, put his shoulder on the wheel again.The carriage finally passed the obstacle.Tom slipped, and followed the carriage unsteadily. 他仍然是光荣的走私一族的成员，但他的经营手段已经有了一些必要的改进。首先，他的加拿大供应商会定期送一批威士忌过来，用不着汤姆再亲自过去取货。第二，包装箱上现在会写有鞋油，或是浓缩牛奶，或是发油，或是牙膏——总之是世界上任何一种不会让狗感兴趣的东西。而且，因为汤姆不喜欢听天由命，所以他采取的预防措施就是和边境的美国海关高级官员成为好朋友，确保他有足够的威士忌可以喝，也确保他的妻子终于可以买得起那件她一直想要的貂皮大衣。 这一行业的利润很大——每星期一百美元或是更多——但汤姆的心仍然属于石油。 上到一个坡顶之后，赶马人停下大汗淋漓的马，等着汤姆赶上来。 “天啊！真是个见鬼的找石油的地方！” 远处的山坡上，星星点点的全是油井。汤姆知道的有十多个产油的油井，但每周都有新的油井发现石油。汤姆有空的时候还会去给莱曼·巴德干活，从巴德的兴奋中可以很清楚地看出很快有一天他自己也会挖出石油。 “这是个完美的地方。”汤姆低声说。 “哪个是你的？”赶马人挥着鞭子指了指那片油井，同时嘴里发出声音让马继续前进。 "Ok?" “哪个是你的？哪个油井？” “我没有油井。” “你没有？”赶马人看上去很是不解，“我还以为……”他指了指身后，那些钢板仍在叮哐作响。 “你想得没错。这些就是储油罐——至少组装起来以后就是。我们会把它们放在那儿，我想。”他指了指地儿。 有那么一分钟左右，赶马人很沉默地赶着马。虽然他们已经走过了最糟糕的山头，但山路仍然很危险，需要小心驾车。赶马人陷入沉思。 最终他开口说，“我没想到。” “想到什么？” “你有油罐，可你没有石油？” "That's right." “没有油井？” "No." “没有工作队？” "No?" "Nothing at all?" “只有油罐。” 赶马人看上去很乐于沉默地接受这些回答，但没过多久汤姆就发现他在颤抖。汤姆看向一边。他正笑得全身颤抖。汤姆咧开嘴。赶马人开始轻笑出声。 “没有石油，只有油罐，嗯？” 汤姆也轻笑着，“你说的没错。” 确认了汤姆不会发怒之后，赶马人笑得更加大声。“没有石油？嘿，别担心。”他冲着诸多小溪中的一条挥了挥鞭子，“那儿一点也不缺水。嘿？哈！哈哈哈！”他仰头大笑。 汤姆跟着他一起放声大笑；仰过头，帽子放在膝盖上，微风穿过他的头发，他的笑声飘扬在广阔草原的整个上空。 “你是我见过的最疯狂的混蛋，”赶马人说，“最疯狂的，要么就是最愚蠢的。” “嗯嗯，”汤姆渐渐收住笑声，“嗯嗯，要么是这两者，要么就是最聪明的。” 石油业需要钱，足够的钱。钻井：你需要钱。找到石油以后，采集石油：你需要钱。抽取石油：钱。提炼石油：钱。运送石油：钱。销售石油：钱，钱，更多的钱。 所以石油公司才会规模巨大。谁听说过小型石油公司？谁听说过哪家石油公司只值七万英镑？ ＊＊ “我们现在正在用美国地震仪勘测这一地区。说句实话，非常有趣。点燃炸药，听听它的回声。很显然，石油听起来跟其它东西都不一样。我猜，它颤动得肯定更加厉害。” 英国波斯石油公司的油田经理钱多斯·休斯是一个脸色苍白的从寄宿学校出来的学生，虽然他现在正身陷波斯沙漠的中部，跟伊顿学院、亨利市的划船比赛、皇家阿斯科特赛马会和其它所有曾经构成他生活的事务有着上百万英里的距离，但这一事实好像对他毫无影响。 “还有很多非常好的新式钻探设备，”他继续说道，“新式转盘意味着我们只需要过去时间的三分之一左右就能钻到一千英尺。” 乔治·雷诺兹点点头。太阳火辣辣地烤着干旱的平原，雷诺兹拿出一块巨大的白手帕擦了擦额头，“该死的温度，”他说。 “该死的……？天啊，对，天气很热，是吧？阿巴丹那些幸运的家伙们，冰箱里装满了冷饮。我们这些可怜的沙漠老鼠真是遭罪。” 雷诺兹指着尘土里的一堆钢管，“那是什么？准备丢弃的，是不是？” “天啊，是的。那是我们旧的撞击设备。不是嗡嗡－嗡嗡－嗡嗡声——”休斯的手做出钻探的动作，“而是咚咚咚。确切说来，就是用重物砸出一个坑，把地下的岩石砸碎。想想看，这么去挖一个油井！肯定是个可怕的钻孔。咚咚咚咚咚。就算是先进设备都够困难的了……” 休斯絮絮叨叨地说下去。炙热的阳光照射下来。用旧了的撞击设备在高热下闪闪发光。钻头大概十二英尺高，十八英寸宽，重量肯定大大超过一吨。摆得乱七八糟的钻杆上几乎没有锈迹——毕竟这里是沙漠——但管子里全都是沙，还有一群耗子在管口进进出出。休斯还在说着。雷诺兹几乎都没去听。他比休斯大二十岁，比他的实地经验也要多得多。 另外，他来这儿不是来学习的。他是来偷窃的。 在油田技术方面美国人领先于全世界。他们愿意提供最新的设备，并担保这些设备在有利的地形上可以钻到九千英尺深。价格是三万两千英镑。 英国技术没有那么先进，但艾伦在格拉斯哥找到一家工厂，那儿可以按照他指定的规格生产设备，并可以免费将货物送到英国任何一个地方，价格是两万七千英镑。 可艾伦的七万英镑要干所有的事。不仅仅是设备，还得将设备安装到位，钻探，储存，管道，提炼，海运，出售。 他算过一遍又一遍。他没有两万七千英镑，他只有七千。 ＊＊ 这是一个没有月亮的夜晚。一阵微风从东边吹来，激起的浪花撞击着小船的一边船舷。小船系在锚上，只有桅顶一盏黑乎乎的灯笼放出微光。 “你确定我们来对了地方吗？”艾伦用波斯语问。 船夫咧开嘴笑了笑，吐了口痰。一团血红的槟榔汁越过船舷进入水中。候赛因·纳斯尔从小就在里海讨生活。有时他会捕鱼，有时他会走私。全都是一样的。 艾伦用手摩擦着粗糙的木头船舷。他不喜欢海，而木头的触觉则会给他带来一种朦胧的安慰感。他们过海总共花了十八个小时，现在他们离列宁统治下的俄国海岸只有一英里。西面不远处是巴库市，它是阿塞拜疆最大的港口，但更加重要的是，它是俄国石油业的中心。内战仍在拖延着，但有一点已经相当清楚，那就是托洛茨基领导下的红军将会消灭一切敌人。苏维埃的残暴，富农这一土地所有者的命运，各种这些方面的传言开始传出俄国。艾伦并不完全相信他所听到的传言，但他知道红军不会友善地对待一个离俄国最有价值的工业基地只有几步之遥的英国贵族间谍。 纳斯尔钻进小舱，然后拿出一些扁面包、五香肉块和一木碗羊奶酸乳酪。“吃吧，先生。你得放松点。” 他们开始吃东西。艾伦出乎意料地饿，所以放任自己狼吞虎咽。他们把肉块掰成小块，然后用面包夹着肉块蘸上奶酪。它吃起来就像是世界上最美味的食物。当叫声传来的时候，艾伦甚至都没有听到。只有等叫声再次传来的时候，艾伦的心脏才突然停止了跳动。他屏住呼吸。 纳斯尔倾听着叫声，然后也喊出一种奇怪的平板的低语，这阵低语毫不费力地沿着水面飘远。一阵回应的低语传来，纳斯尔咧嘴笑着转向艾伦，“是我的朋友，先生。不用害怕。”艾伦这才又开始呼吸。 寂静了片刻后，纳斯尔抽出灯笼的一片纸板，让烛光直直照出去一两分钟，然后又盖上纸板，并在船头那狭小的就座处坐下。他把地毯铺到木头地板上，放了几个枕头，然后拿过他在一个钟头之前或是更早的时候就点燃的水烟筒。木炭在底部放着红光，但他又加了一些炭，吹了吹气，让它烧得更旺一些。 然后船侧传来轻轻的敲击声。无形的手快速地推着两只小船，然后两个身形跳上船。 纳斯尔跳起来，拥抱了一下那两个人，脸对脸地碰了三下。他们快速地用一种艾伦很难听懂的方言说着话：带有俄国口音、可能还有美国口音的波斯语。一阵酒瓶和酒杯相撞的丁当声传来。三个人走到铺着地毯、放着水烟筒的地方，然后纳斯尔暗示艾伦应该跟上。新来的两个人穿着黑色的衣服和靴子，这是这一行当的传统着装。虽然两人的肤色都是波斯人的那种黝黑色，但他们那结实的体格和宽阔的方脸都是来自俄国血统。艾伦和他们握握手，然后觉得自己就像一个傻瓜一样脸对脸地跟他们拥抱了一下。从他们的呼气中，他可以闻出洋葱味、醋味、烟味和海盐味。 四个人都坐了下来。这两个俄国人带了两瓶伏特加和几个小酒杯。艾伦转头看了一眼纳斯尔。穆罕默德的信徒是不能饮酒的，而且艾伦也从没见过纳斯尔食用任何比槟榔和烟草更具烈性的东西。他的担心是没有必要的。在这个时期伊斯兰教义远远没有好邻居重要，而水烟筒和伏特加则把同行变成了好友。 半个小时后，谈话极其缓慢地转向正事。艾伦比一开始的时候更能听懂这两个俄国人说的话，但纳斯尔还是得充当翻译。 “十月革命将会解放无产阶级，”较老的那个俄国人严肃地说，“但时局很艰难。” 艾伦说他第一次去波斯的时候曾经路过巴库，这个地方的繁荣和工业力量让他印象深刻。 那个俄国人摇摇头，“以前是，以前它是个很棒的城市。不过现在……人们很饥饿。他们害怕没人会购买他们的石油。他们害怕自己会饿死。” 艾伦现在已经足够了解东方人，知道应该怎样作答。他说他非常钦佩巴库的人民，他很愿意尽一切努力解决他们的痛苦。 然后谈话很快转到了正事上。艾伦想要什么？他会付多少钱？他用纸币还是用金块付帐？他们怎样才能确认艾伦不是革命间谍？ 艾伦递给他们一张用波斯语和俄语列的需求单子。他递给他们三十个一镑金币作为定金。纳斯尔像鹰一样倾听着，等到开始讨论详细的运送时，他马上接手。艾伦所需要的东西需要重型船只进行运送。一般走私者的货品都是酒、丝绸、毛皮和烟草，这些东西体积很小，相对比较容易处理。纳斯尔说的滔滔不绝，而且非常坚持。这次交易如果成功，他就会挣到足够的钱，可以成为一个富人，然后洗手不干；如果失败他可能会被俄国的海岸警察一枪击毙，也有可能会在海中翻船。那两名俄国人也开始滔滔不绝，声音因为酒水和兴奋而变粗。艾伦没法听懂他们在说什么。 他走到船边，舀起两捧扎人的盐水拍到脸上。他想起乔治·雷诺兹以及他们为自己制定的任务。 他想起洛蒂，疑惑于哪一个是真正的她：仁爱，认真而且尽职的战争时期的洛蒂？还是肤浅而轻浮的和平时期的洛蒂？这个问题就像往常一样折磨着他。 他将注意力转回到他们的谈话。纳斯尔和那两个俄国人已经说完了。遥远的东方，一丝灰白的微光照亮了黑暗。是时候离开这儿了。 油罐竖在一个斜坡的底部，周围全是草原上的野草。没有管子伸进油罐。油罐的铁壁敲上去发出空洞的回声。里面的空间可以放三千桶石油，但现在它正装着三千桶的空气。 附近钻塔的工人纷纷跑过来观看、偷笑，继而大笑。 “嘿，伙计！你最好小心点。那边有个漏洞。你没看见有空气漏出来吗？” “嘿，先生，你是要把它装满水吗？我喜欢游泳，我。” 另一个开玩笑的家伙脱掉他的外套和衬衫，做出要跳水的样子。 汤姆任由他们大笑。这是初春里温暖而和煦的一天。他吃着三明治，跟那些张嘴傻看的人开着玩笑。他在一个煤气炉上做着咖啡，并用罐头杯子装着咖啡递给那些想喝的人。但不久之后，汤姆的午餐就被打断了。 一个壮实的男子走过来挡在汤姆和太阳之间，他长着一脸具有维多利亚风格的络腮胡子。汤姆认出这人是一个钻探队的头儿，他们的油井是最早一批挖出石油的。 “这是你的油罐？”那人粗鲁地问。 “对，要来点咖啡吗？” 那人粗暴地摇摇头，“你打算在里面放什么？” “糖，我没有牛奶了。” “油罐，拜托，不是咖啡。” 汤姆耸耸肩，“它的名字叫油罐，所以我想我应该用它来装石油。” “我有石油。” “嘿，太好了，恭喜你。”汤姆不带讽刺地说。 “而你有油罐。” "Indeed." “你帮我装石油，我每个月每桶油给你一分钱，直到山谷上面架起管道。大概三四个月吧。” “这咖啡不错，”汤姆说，“很新鲜，你真的不来点吗？” “三千桶，是吧？一个月一分钱。三个月，那是——什么？九十块，小一百了。” “不成交。” “不成交？”那人大惑不解，“你又没有石油。” “一滴都没有。” “我给你一百五十块。马上，我现在抽出来的石油根本用不完，大多数都蒸发了。” “那真是不幸。” “一百八？” "No." 这一天慢慢过去。有关汤姆那个油罐的消息很快传了出去。可到了这一天结束的时候，没有人再嘲笑他，没有人再脱衣装出要游泳的样子。 相反，一群人蹲坐在汤姆那个小帐篷旁边的石头上。油田的情况很严重。越来越多的石油被挖出，但因为通往山谷的道路无法通行，所以抽出来的石油几乎是毫无价值。 等汤姆宣布他是去购买石油的时候，他的面前有六个急切的卖主。 “跟你们说吧，伙计们，”太阳开始落山的时候，汤姆开口说道，“我们要进行一次拍卖。” “拍卖？你怎么想的？我们只有一个买主。” “这会是一个很特别的拍卖。我是这么想的。” 他进行了详细的解释。汤姆的想法是一种反拍卖。他会以每桶两毛五的价格购买一千桶石油。在这个价格时六个石油商都很急切，但汤姆还没打算立刻成交。 “现在，谁愿意以每桶两毛四的价格卖给我一千桶石油？”他说。 离汤姆最近的那个人像是被人一拳打在下巴上。他重重坐到石头上。 “该死的，”他说，“我们在降价。” 但他还是举起了手。其他人也都举起手。 “六个人都愿意两毛四？”汤姆说，“谁愿意两毛三就卖？” 六个人争先恐后地举起手。汤姆选出举手最快的那人。 “你是两毛三，”他说，“谁愿意两毛二就卖？……两毛一？……两毛？……一毛九？” 当最后一线阳光从地平线消失时，那些人仍然留在那儿。仍然很郁闷，仍然很震惊，仍然在出价。