Chapter 10 Part IV Sections 40-44

"It never came up," Allen said. "It will," Reynolds said. They looked down at the truck, which shimmered in the heat below.The tan cab roof is covered in dust, dents and scratches.It looked like an old boxer who just lost a fight. "They're overheating. Most trucks have to stop once or twice to cool down, even if they're not pulling anything." "It will come up." They squinted at the truck.It carried the twelve-foot drill Reynolds had seen in the desert.BP was refusing to sell any equipment to the upstart competitor, even the ones it was about to throw away.This is to be expected.After Reynolds completed his reconnaissance, he and Allen went to the chief of the local Bakhtiari tribe.Allen explained to him that there was some equipment that the British Persian Oil Company had left to rot, and that it was of great use to him.

The Chief frowned.He ordered lemon sherbet to be served, and slaughtered two young lambs for them.Then, after a sufficient number of nuggets were handed over, the chief promised to act.In the second week, he came to the drilling site with a large team of people riding horses, motorcycles or trucks.They circled around the camp, fired a few shots to signal that the others had better not mess with them, and then stole everything Allen asked for. Meanwhile, the Russian smugglers completed their part of the deal.Allen had enough cash to buy a complete drilling rig, storage tanks, temporary pipelines, and other miscellaneous things.The equipment was brought in by tramp, accompanied by a Soviet Russian document claiming that the cargo on board was a cargo of grain.Some of these Russian-made equipment are brand new, while others are quite worn out.Allen suspected—more than suspected—that some of the existing working equipment was just dismantled and transported away—right under the noses of the Red Army.

With all the equipment in place, the next task was pulling it to Zagros: a tall order.Most of the distance has no roads at all.The spring floods washed away the bridges.The mules were limping, and the trucks were stalling.So they made rafts and rope bridges.They leveled the mountain roads.They planted explosives under the rock pile.They build and carry a furnace with them so they can always make replacement parts for the truck. Now, it has almost reached the end.Just below them, the truck starts to climb after changing gears.The air was dizzyingly hot, and the engine casing must have been unimaginably hot.

"A cold beer if it's stopped three times or given up altogether." "A bottle of beer, if it doesn't come up in one go." There is no beer in Zagros, and even if it is, it cannot be chilled.So far, since they worked together in Persia, Alan owed Reynolds seventy-five cold beers, and Reynolds owed his boss sixty-one.The truck was climbing up the hill.The hillside was very steep. Although Allen sent road builders to repair the road, this area was still full of coarse sand and sharp stones, and the road quickly disintegrated under the weight of the wheels.The truck went over the first turn and seemed to back off for a moment.

"It stopped." "No." The driver shifts into the correct gear and continues up.The drill bit on the car looks like some giant teeth dragging on the jaws of dinosaurs.It gleamed dirty in the sun. "How is your arithmetic?" For the past few nights, the lights in Allen's tent have been left on late as he calculates the total cost of drilling before he starts drilling.While in London, Reynolds had told him that it would cost over forty-five thousand pounds--or more than half their existing capital--or more than half their existing capital, just to put their Shipped in place ready to go to work.The truck drove steadily forward.The sudden rise of air brought a puff of smoke and hot oil.

"Very well," said Allen, "we're just over fourteen thousand." "Fourteen thousand? Fourteen thousand pounds? My God, that's a big win." Allen nodded with a smile. "And that's not all. There's a whole case of cold beer in there for me, if I remember correctly." Reynolds grimaced, tugged at his beard, and remembered his debt. "But the truck is still climbing." This is a fact.The truck was so close now that they could hear the sound of the engine echoing off the steep hill.Allen shook his head.He can't understand.Every truck overheats on this last slope.each.Most have to be stopped to cool down, with the hood up for at least two hours.But this heavy truck has driven farther than other trucks.

"If it does come up, then we can start drilling tomorrow." "What if? What if? It's coming. I told you." Allen shook his head, "It won't." Reynolds chuckled.He knew what Alan didn't. "Ice in the radiator?" Allen asked him. "Where do I get ice cubes?" "That's ice water." "no." "You turned up the fan speed." "Phew!" Reynolds didn't even bother to answer the question.Even the air in the shade is 96 degrees, and you can't even blow a strong wind on the engine. "Then it will stop."

"It won't." Behind them, the rig casts longer and longer shadows on the sand.They will begin drilling less than half a mile from where Mohamed Emery initially pointed out.The well had been named Mohammed Emery No. 1 in accordance with American tradition, and Emery himself had broken into the camp eight days earlier with forty warriors on horseback to inspect the work and remind Allen who had first brought the He brought it into this valley. At the same time, there is still enough work to be done.Drilling with traditional thumping methods will be extremely slow, but slow doesn't matter as long as it's smooth.

The truck was now only a short distance from them.Through the open cab window, Allen could see the sweaty driver, wearing a loose Persian robe, with a bristling beard growing above his mouth that (at one point) rivaled that of George Reynolds. It's better to sigh.A melon rind was thrown on the co-pilot's seat.It was less than a hundred yards now, and the slope was slowing down.Reynolds was right... Melon rind.This thing was firmly imprinted in Allen's mind. The truck climbed to the top of the hill and then paralleled.The drill became level and the string pulling it began to slack.Melon rind.

Reynolds chuckled. "I'm waiting for that beer," he said. But Allen didn't hear it.He runs to the truck.The driver is getting out of the cab amidst the cheers of his companions.Allen ran to the truck and lifted the hood. The engine does get hot, but not insanely hot.A large watermelon, split in half, is hanging on the radiator.Allen put his hand on the watermelon, which sizzled with heat, and even the outer skin was hot.Reynolds also walked up to Allen, panting in the sun. "Oh, yes," he said, "a cold beer is fine with me." The driller threw back his head and let the whiskey gurgle down his throat.

"You've got a nice bottle of wine," he remarked. "This is the last bottle," said Tom.He no longer smuggled booze.Profits in this industry have become so high that competition between rival suppliers can only be resolved by fighting and yelling.Tom didn't want to get involved in these things - besides, his only interest in whiskey was getting his oil business off the ground. "It's a pity. I've had some bootleg liquor lately, and it's keeping my spirits up." Tom didn't answer.The campfire crackled and died down.A million stars hung in the night sky like a jeweler eager to close a deal.There were only four tanks full of oil behind Tom. The driller reached for more whiskey and continued his story.Tom listened with only half attention. "Anyway, this guy Kathy got down to about six thousand feet. The bit went through a layer of friable brown shale, dry shale, shale he'd never seen before. No money to go any further .Sponsor refuses to give any more money and tells him to fuck off. He lives at granny Halsted's and she tells him to fuck off too. Kathy swears there's oil down there. Oil dug out at miles. He ran over to see their drill logs. Begged them. They told him to fuck off. Everyone told Kathy to fuck off at this time. So he had to peek. There was He slipped in one night and looked at their drilling logs, '5,700 ft, brown shale - rare variety, brittle. 5,750 ft, brown shale - same shale. 5,780 ft, brown sticky shale, oil Signs of sand. 5,800 feet, oil sands...oil sands...oil sands.'” "Casey looked at the log and decided that his drill was a hundred feet away and would be in a wonderful oil field that even Rockefeller could have dreamed of. So what did he do? What the hell would anyone else do? He sold his clothes. He sells his watch. He wants to sell his tongue. He raises enough money to drill another week. Sunday night. Bubbles. Signs of oil. The workers are crazy. Holst Granny De brought out the chicken pie and smuggled whiskey, as if the day of deliverance had come early. By this time, everyone knew there was going to be oil, and no one was telling Kathy to fuck off. After another ten feet of drilling, they A large amount of oil was dug out. It was almost two hundred barrels a day, and one barrel was nearly one yuan and two." "It's the only way to make money in the world, I suppose. Get a drill and a piece of land. See what's down there." The driller reached for the bottle again.Tom turned over and added a piece of wood to the fire. "Have you ever drilled a well yourself?" he asked in a low voice. "Me? Of course. Twice. Never dug for oil, though I'm as close to it as a miser is to his wallet." Tom nodded and downed some whiskey too.He had been in the oil fields long enough to understand the pattern.Everyone has a story like Kathy's.Storytellers swear it's true.Perhaps even they believed the stories themselves.But if you ask the magic question—"Have you ever drilled a well yourself?"—the answer is always the same. More than half of older oilmen have drilled wildcat wells at some point in their lives.Each of them was within a few hundred yards of fortune. "It turned out that the land nearby became the wealthiest area in West Texas." "The land ends at the dividing line. Over there, the oil is gushing out like Niagara Falls. On my side, more than a dead wolf Do it." "No money, if we can drill another two hundred feet, we'll get to the oil sands, the richest oil deposit in that part of California." And so on. Tom bought three oil cans with the money he earned from selling liquor.A term bank loan gave him enough money to buy a fourth tank, with enough money left over to buy the oil he needed. In his opinion, his first auction was also the worst.On the first night, the price of oil eventually dropped to 141 cents a barrel.Tom stopped paying for twenty-four hours, then started buying again.The guy with the oil glut has been thinking all night.Their arithmetic looks simple.They can let the oil evaporate and get nothing.They could also sell oil to Tom Calloway and get some money, however pitiful it was.The second auction ended with a low price of ten cents.The third time it dropped to six and five. Tom now owns about fifteen thousand barrels of oil at an average purchase price of just over a dime.He lay on the hillside among the tanks, protecting his precious oil from thieves and vandals.He missed Rebecca—he missed her very strangely and strongly from time to time—but otherwise he was happy. "The pipeline will be here soon," said the driller. "Three weeks later, they said so." "What will you do by then?" "Sell it, of course." "You're sure to make a fortune. Maybe a dollar a barrel...Jesus!" "Maybe." "What are you going to do after you sell it?" asked the driller. "There's a piece of land beyond Stone Creek that I think is very nice. You can drill a well there." "Stone Creek, eh?" said Tom, not particularly excited by the tidbit, but he never turned down an opportunity for useful information. "That's right. Listen," the driller moved closer to Tom, lowering his voice so that the mice, rabbits, owls, and prairie grass wouldn't overhear him before spreading the word to all the oil in western Pennsylvania. business. "Here's a friend over there. Prospector. Private. He doesn't see anything, but he can smell. Born with this nose, understand? We're running around raising money to start drilling. Didn't want to be with you Yes, but I can tell you're a real oilman, really." Tom's interest had been modest at first, and it was nonexistent now.He yawned and lay down.His coat was rolled up to serve as a pillow.Under the coat was a small flat bag that rustled when Tom moved his head. "Thank you for the information," he said, "I will consider it." "It's just the smell, see? Some people can smell it and others can't. It's as simple as that." "I suppose so," said Tom, not bothering to argue with him. But it's all bullshit.Obvious bullshit. You can't smell oil below ten feet, let alone below five thousand feet.In all these stories about Kathy and all that stuff and whatnot, Tom never got to meet anyone who actually drilled wells and made money.There is a reason why the rich are always rich and the poor are always poor. information. It's that simple. Information about where the oil might be.Based on information from geology, seismology, and smart people doing complex calculations.Information on available land, prices and refining capacity.That's why Tom listened to the driller, but wasn't thrilled.That's why he spends days thinking about his next move. That's why he keeps a little bag under his pillow that rustles when he moves it. Summer in Persia has gradually turned to autumn, but they are now in a short autumn tiger period, which brings back all the fiery memories of summer.Both mules and horses lolled in the shade.Those who didn't need immediate work wandered under the awnings of the huts built by tribal men who never lacked resources.The wooden drilling rig stood idly while the members of the drilling team (three Poles who had worked in the United States, two Russians, and a talented young Persian) played cards and used The four languages ​​are bickering.The sun shone down hotly. In one corner of the construction site, the heat wave almost solidified.There was a wall of heat not even twenty feet away.After that point, every step forward is a new round of high temperature.It was almost like stepping into a big furnace. Allen walked into this big furnace. A Persian boy is stomping on the bellows behind a small furnace.Every minute or so, he dipped a wooden spoon into the bucket beside him to scoop up a ladle of water and splashed it over his head.Less than a minute later, his hair was completely dry and he had to water again. In front of the furnace, the heat wave was rushing straight ahead with unabated momentum.Reynolds was repairing a bent steel pipe in the distance.Reynolds' face was never short of rosiness, but now it was redder than a tomato and brighter than a beetroot.Beads of sweat hung from his neatly groomed beard like pearls on an evening dress. "It's my turn," Allen said. "It's almost over, brother." This steel pipe is an important part of the Russian-made boiler.The boiler provides power to the drilling rig.Without steel pipes, there would be no boilers.Without a boiler, there is no way to drill a well.Without drilling, there is no oil.This is the seventh time the boiler has failed in two months. Reynolds knocked the shiny steel back into shape.Allen took the pliers and let Reynolds go about with his bare hands.Finally finished.Allen threw the steel pipe into a bucket of cold water, and there was a hissing sound from the steel pipe.The pair then scrambled to escape the heat, dousing themselves in the river.The Persian boy on the bellows poured the last bit of water from the bucket over his head, and ran to get the piece of tobacco that had been promised to him. Reynolds downed a heap of tea while Allen put the steel pipe between his feet.Allen took a metal file and started assembling the steel pipe.Using a crude furnace and a pile of metal files to assemble complex components is a very unpleasant way to work, but they have no choice.Basic metalworking could be done in Karachi, which was only fifteen hundred feet from them.But for more complex operations, the only option is to wire the specifications back to England, where the parts are built and shipped. Reynolds watched Allen work. "Half a day, buddy, and then the boiler will be ready for use." "It will take a week." "Ah, well, I'll be very happy with how the next week goes." Allen laughed.Reynolds was unmatched in his determination to drill wells.Frustrations, disappointments, breakdowns and disasters are everyday events for him. "Yeah," Allen said, "me too. As long as we can get more fuel." Farther from the rig, there was a commotion in the camp.First there were shouts, and then there were cheers.Two rifle rounds fired wildly into the air. "That must be the fuel truck," Reynolds said happily. "We'll continue drilling tomorrow." "hope so." The fuel for the boiler—a mixture of coal, coke, and wood—has been thrown into the furnace.Their boilers are now mostly operational, but they have no fuel.From beyond the rocky valley wall came the echo of truck engines.These days, the access to the drilling site has been improved, and a large batch of "Reynolds Radiator Coolers"—watermelons, in other words—is sitting in the creek at the bottom of the slope.It had been eight weeks since the truck last stalled on the last ramp.Some wild Persians like to drive their trucks down the valley and back again, with escorts of cavalry, random gunfire, and loads of unrecovered property. Allen grinds the steel pipe patiently.Reynolds had found something else to do.His extreme impatience spread throughout the camp and affected everyone.Allen noticed that under Reynolds' tough supervision, the Persian tents had gradually formed a nearly militarized queue.They've gone from being a rabble to the disciplined lads they are now.They resupply the camp, repair roads, run furnaces, prepare food, support drillers, and defend the camp from attack.They even learned enough manual skills to repair engines and make spare parts with little to no instruction. The truck is getting closer. "Fuel," Reynolds said, "lovely fuel. I'll go unload it." Allen nodded.He is very busy now.If he stops for five minutes, drilling will be delayed by five minutes.He doesn't want to stop. The truck went over the top of the hill and then roared into the camp, the wheels creaking and the driver yelling with delight.Two men began unloading from the back of the car: fresh fruit and vegetables; three live goats; a scrawny sheep; tobacco; a sack of rice; a sack of wheat flour for baking bread.No trace of fuel. Reynolds was arguing with them, but one of the tribal men, a young man named Ahmad, ran up to Allen.Ahmod has been learning English with the Polish members of the drilling team, and he is extremely proud of his growing fluency in English. "Huh?" Allen asked, "What news?" Ahmad grinned wide. "Three rotten goats, one rotten sheep. Enough bloody tobacco." "What about the fuel, Ahmad? Then—" Allen swallowed the swear words that were about to come out, "What about the fuel?" The word stumped Ahmad.Alan was about to say it again in Persian, but Amod saw his intention and shook his head violently. "Lan material? Lan material?" "Fuel, coal for the boiler, fuel to put in the boiler." "Ah!" There was a smile on Amode's face, as bright as the sky at dawn. "Ah, Lanao, Lanao! Yes." He leaned back his shoulders and raised his head, as if making a formal address to the military authorities.He said with a look of extreme pride, "Today, sir, there is no damn blue material." Tom sold all the oil. Not a dollar a barrel--and he never counted on it--but eighty-three cents a barrel, minus all shipping costs.He also sold the oil cans because they were no longer needed.He paid off the loan.It has been more than a year since he told immigration officers on Ellis Island that he was drilling for oil.They were all laughing at him then: him and his forty-eight dollars.Now they don't laugh anymore.When everything was settled, Tom would leave Wyoming with about eleven thousand dollars to his name. But before he left, he had to say goodbye to someone.He found her in a two-room apartment above a bakery.It was just one o'clock in the afternoon, and she was still in her dressing gown, eating her breakfast—two eggs.Because of his recent business, Tom hadn't been with her for more than seven weeks. "Hey, Rebecca. I just wanted to come over and tell you I'm leaving." She looked at him carefully, put another spoonful of eggs into her mouth, and said slowly, "Good morning." "Sorry. Good morning. Good afternoon. Either." "you are leaving?" "Uh-huh." "Where to? How long?" Although Rebecca has been in America much longer than Tom, her accent has hardly changed, while Tom's accent and vocabulary are getting closer to the oilmen around him every day.Anyone who meets him now guesses that he came from somewhere in New England, and is astonished to learn that he came from England so short a time ago. "Let's go. Now I've made some money. Enough to go drilling for oil." Tom checked his words, the last sentence was a little unrealistic. "Well, almost enough, I suppose. But enough to get started." Rebecca stared at him curiously.Tom still stood there, hat in hand, and the luggage by the door. "Are you coming in or going out?" "Huh? Going out, I suppose." "Don't you even want a cup of coffee?" Tom hesitated.He felt very uncomfortable in her room.There was only one bed in the room - a huge old brass dinosaur - and he knew exactly what it was for and how often.The scene made him uncomfortable.While in town, he had grown to like and depend on Rebecca's company and communication, but whenever he could, he saw her in public places: restaurants or bars.But this time it's time for a change.He threw his hat on the bed, took off his coat, and sat down. Rebecca got up and found a clean cup, and poured him some coffee, with some cream and two or three spoonfuls of sugar.She had seen through his defenses some of the most important events of his prison life quite early on. "You were short of food," she said once when they ate together. "You must have been very hungry." "right." "Starving to death?" "Yes, almost starving to death." "Didn't the Red Cross send anything?" "No." "Does this bother you when I ask you?" "No. I don't like talking about it, but it doesn't bother me. Why should I? It's over." "Well," snorted Rebecca, as she always did when she didn't like Tom's answer, "but the war was over soon, so it saved your life?" "No, not quite. I decided to run away so I wouldn't die of starvation. They caught me and killed my friend. They could have killed me too, but they didn't. The commander of the prison sent me to help on the farm instead. There are Food. I survived." "I see..." Rebecca stared at him, then put her hand on Tom's arm, which was wrapped around the plate, as if protecting it from attack. "It's all right now. I won't steal it." Tom resisted angrily for a moment.If he wanted to loop his arms around the plate, that was his business.The muscles in his arms stand out.She held on to his arm, the warmth of her skin seeping through his wool jacket.There was a momentary resistance of his will, and then he gave in.He moves his arm away.Now there is nothing to protect his plate.Blood welled up his forearm, as if he'd kept it tense for five years.He gasped for breath, with an indescribable complex feeling. Rebecca continued to look at him, and said, "You are brave." "What do you mean? Brave? That's nothing. Come on, I just take my arm off. Who the hell cares where I put my goddamn arm?" Rebecca didn't answer, but she's since become hypersensitive to his eating habits.Without even asking, she started adding milk and sugar to his coffee, which at first tasted too strong for him - or rather, so strong that he thought he couldn't bear it.But it suits him well.He started eating more sweets, more dairy, more of the foods he craved in prison. They drank coffee and ate a few slices of warm bread from the bakery downstairs. "Not bad," said Tom, with his mouth full. "Can you?" He poured himself some more coffee. "Please help yourself. There's still cream in the fridge." She hadn't fastened her dressing gown very carefully, and her long black hair, tied loosely behind her shoulders, formed a kind of halo around the more defined features of her face.She carried the breath of a woman who had just woken up.Tom is strongly attracted to her.When she was dressed as a whore—low-cut blouses, too much make-up, skirts that showed too much thigh—he was both attracted to her and annoyed, but in the end the annoyance always prevailed.The fact that Tom hadn't slept with her made a sort of record in the history of his relationships with women. "I'm going to miss you," she said finally, "maybe I shouldn't, but I'm going to miss you anyway." "Oh, thank you. That's a great compliment." "I'm glad you're not smuggling whiskey anymore. For some reason, I never thought you'd be in this business." "Well, did you ever imagine that you'd be in your line of business for so long, Miss Luigi?" He said her name in her husky, Central European accent. She blushed. "I don't remember what I said to deserve this kind of treatment," she said. "I think you'd better finish your coffee and leave. Maybe you just want me not to think about you at all." "I'm sorry. It's so stupid to say that. That's not what I meant." "That's what you mean." Tom burst into a fit of anger.She was always like this, Rebecca, never bowing her head. "Well, that's what I mean. It's a dirty job, and you know it yourself. I don't think you're low enough to do it, and I don't like to see you do it." "I know what you think. And I can do whatever I want." Tom grabbed his hat and luggage. "Well, do what you want. You've always been and always will be." He slammed the thin wooden door shut and left. Filled with anger, he walked down the main road to the station.Damn, this woman annoyed him.If she wasn't some cheap whore in some cheap oil town, if she wasn't sleeping with any young worker with a few bucks in his pocket, she could... Tom didn't know what she could do, but he knew she was on his nerves. He goes to the station.The train departs in forty-three minutes.He bought a ticket and went to a small stall to see what was on offer.He glanced at his watch.Forty-one minutes.Still, she was right about his sweet tooth.Tom is always carrying a bag of candy in his pocket now, like a spoiled seven-year-old.He bought some candied peanuts and chewed them slowly for... thirty-seven minutes. Suddenly he made a decision.He walked out of the station and ran back to Rebecca's apartment.He didn't knock on the door, just broke in.She never locks the door when she is at home. She was still in the house, still alone, reading a murder detective novel, drinking the last of her coffee.She looked up in surprise as her guest rushed in. "A lot of people like to knock on the door before they come in," she said. "Come with me. Don't stay here. Pack up and move out at once. There's a train in half an hour. We'll be on the West Coast tomorrow." "Follow you? What do you mean?" "Meaning get out of it all—" Tom waved his hand around the room, emphasizing the bed—"and come with me." "Are you asking me to live with you? Like husband and wife?" Tom was overwhelmed by the question.He didn't know what he meant either.He just thought it would be a good idea if they left together. "I don't know. Not like a husband and wife. Not like anything. Just leaving." Rebecca had a very expressive mouth, and it was vibrating with something right now: fun, fondness, maybe a hint of mockery.Her deep eyes were as impenetrable as ever. "It's a really well-planned proposal." "It's not a proposal, it's... Listen, damn it, are you going or are you not going? The train's leaving soon." "Yes, and I'm sure there will be another train at the same place tomorrow." "I'm not leaving tomorrow. I'm leaving now. You don't want to go, that's fine. I just came to ask you." He turned to go, but Rebecca got up and went to him.He could smell the coffee on her breath, feel her warmth, see the soft skin on the curve of her breasts. "Dear Thomas," she said, "no need to apologize. You're so sweet. You're a good person, even if you don't always realize it." She faced him and took his shoulders.As always, her deep eyes searched his face for an answer to a question.She took a step forward, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him deeply.It was a long, passionate kiss that made all his desire for her eager to penetrate every cell of his body. "Thank you for coming back to me. God bless you. Good luck." That was his last impression of her.Standing by the door, barefoot, wearing a dressing gown, exuding the aroma of sleep and coffee, their kisses still warm on their lips. The first sign of trouble was a dose of "Basra Belly" that knocked half the population down.The toilet stinks and is full of flies.Allen pulled four times, and his intestines were almost pulled out.They also found two Russians on the drilling team threatening the Persian cook at gunpoint, apparently accusing him of sabotage.Only George Reynolds was completely unaffected. He became responsible for flushing toilets with melted snow on the top of the mountain and ensuring that the drilling work was kept on schedule as soon as possible. Because the snow water was diverted to the toilets, the potable water in the camp had to be the kitchen water, which should have been boiled first, but probably wasn't.It should be kept away from any food or water from a Shiraz market, but it probably doesn't. ＊＊ Boom boom boom or buzz? There is no competition.Percussive drilling is much slower and more cumbersome than modern rotary methods.On the other hand, the money they have left them no choice.And in a way, the more primitive their equipment, the easier it is to fix. The English-speaking oilmen had long ago named their gigantic drill bit "Mama Hubbard," while the Polish crew called it "Damn Mama Hubbard," "Hubbards Kee Bitch" or simply "Mamushiu".Whatever it's called, the drill has been loaded onto a pulley system driven by giant cams, and smashed down.Then lift it up and drop it again.Lift it up again, and smash it down again.After a few moments, the broken soil at the bottom of the hole has reduced its momentum, and Mama Hubbard is lifted out of the hole and set aside, while a scoop is put in.The sand scoop tool clears out the broken soil, and after the hole is cleaned up fairly clean, "Aunt Hubbard" will be used again. It's been slow, but it's been going on.They had now dug eight hundred feet, and the broken earth that had been dug up showed nothing to suggest that there might be no oil underneath. "I smell it," Reynolds said, touching his shiny nose, "I can smell oil in this valley." ＊＊ After the diarrhea stopped, a normal day appeared.They drilled eight feet.The Poles and Russians managed to spend the day feuding with great feuds.Allen just felt dizzy, but nothing else.Two trucks came from Shiraz with a ton and a half of good quality boiler coal, some goats, and ninety-five bales of hay to keep the camp animals going after the summer grass had been eaten. stay alive. 第二天情况则变糟了。 黎明时分，厕所门前又一次排起了长队，艾伦也是其中之一。他的腹泻非常严重，而且拉出来的全是水，但几乎没有痛苦。有两个人抱怨说他们还呕吐了，但普遍的症状还是腹泻。艾伦注意到，除了铁人雷诺兹和一名俄国人外，所有的西方人都病倒了，而波斯人的得病率则要低得多，可能只有百分之三十。 “觉得好点了吗，老兄？”雷诺兹问。 他们并不经常称呼对方为“老兄”，艾伦可以从雷诺兹的问话中看出他很担心。 “很好。就是不时得跑上几步。我估计是因为昨晚的羊肉。” "Maybe." “真是让人讨厌。” “对，我想也是。不过，你最好休息一下。” 艾伦摇摇头。锅炉有个安全阀，它好像很容易漏气，所以经常没有足够的压力去趋动举重机。艾伦和雷诺兹想出一个临时应急的办法让安全阀可以更好地保证压力，今天艾伦的工作就是开始装配。 “那小心点，老兄。这个毛病很折腾人的。” 这种说法太过保守了。到这天结束的时候，事情已经变得很显然：这不是寻常的腹泻。十四个病人每个小时都要失水两品脱。厕所又一次脏得令人作呕，雷诺兹的精力又一次投入到卫生清理工作中。 他亲自监督着造好大水桶，并确保水桶用沸水清洗过。然后他又命令厨房将锅炉里的水足足烧上十分钟，然后再将锅炉里的水倒进水桶。水桶满了之后他就叫来阿莫德，给他两支手枪，命令他击毙任何有可能污染这些水的人。阿莫德严格执行着他的命令，不止一次把枪对准那些走近水桶想要洗手或是洗脸的人。 到晚上的时候，艾伦的两眼深陷了进去。他的手指开始起皱，嘴唇也干裂得开始流血。虽然天气很热，但他不再出汗，最后只能让一个波斯男孩拿着风扇对着他的胸膛和脑袋直吹才能让他保持凉爽。雷诺兹取消了当天的所有工作，就像一个保姆一样在艾伦的帐篷里进进出出。 “拜托，老兄，我一点事都没有。”艾伦说，“我以前得过这病。” “不，你没得过，老弟，这不是腹泻，这是霍乱。” 加利福尼亚的阳光和别处的阳光都不一样。 加利福尼亚的阳光是星期五下午的阳光。在这样的阳光下应该喝上一大杯杜松子酒和滋补剂，什么也用不着干，只需等着晚餐。等到太阳来到加利福尼亚的时候，它已经照过了澳洲、亚洲、非洲、美洲、大西洋和美国五十个州中的四十九个州。现在它只需照耀着加利福尼亚，而且除去小小的夏威夷岛和一些的岛民外，它一天的工作都已经结束。 当然了，就像别处一样，加利福尼亚的阳光并不意味着什么。如果你的运气已经用完，那你的运气就是已经用完。阳光带不来一丝区别。 ＊＊ 一轮大大的红太阳正要沉入圣卡塔利娜岛那边的太平洋。汤姆走近钻塔的时候将帽沿往下拉到眼睛处。一个手写的标语写着“阿拉米托斯一号，锡格纳尔山。”，但钻塔一片安静，钻杆也毫无动静。锅炉出了毛病，它的内脏摊开摆在一张脏兮兮的棉制床单上，钻探队员正忙着修理它。 “它的O型环坏了，”汤姆指着那儿说，“我很乐意帮你去弄个新的。” “我们不雇人，小子。对不起。” “我在怀俄明干过，我会操作钻塔。” “我知道你会，小子，可我们不雇人，对不起。” “我不急着拿工资。” 那个钻探工——一个很有名的家伙，名叫O·P·“快乐”尤威尔——刚在一块油迹斑斑的破布上擦完手，然后低头看去，发现他的手上和胳膊上沾上了更多的油，他恼火地把布扔下。 “听着，小子。这里是壳牌石油公司，不是你那种才值两分钱的个人钻井。如果你想靠钻井挣点钱，去找那些要雇人的主。如果你在这附近闲逛是为了瞄一眼我们的岩芯，那就快滚。你看不着它们，任何人都别想看着。见鬼的，我发誓你是第十五个在这附近探头探脑的人。我们这是一口勘测井，小子。就这些。这就是又一头该死的井。” 汤姆明白了他的意思。他并不吃惊。当钻探队接近他们认为存在石油的地方时，他们就会花费精力去钻取岩芯。意思就是，粗略说来，他们会放下一个岩芯提取器，它的工作原理很像苹果去芯器。岩芯提取器会切割出一块圆柱形岩石，然后将它提到地面。通过这种办法你可以看到你所钻透的成分。如果你正在靠近石油，那么岩石里面会有迹象。 汤姆依依不舍地最后看了一眼钻塔，然后往下走向海滩。阳光斜斜照进他的眼里。他陷入沉思。 ＊＊ 早在汤姆扎营在他的油罐旁的时候，他就把获取信息当作了自己的工作。不是大多数独立钻探工喜欢的那种垃圾信息，而是能够做出重大决策的那种实质性信息。 他买了很多地图，研究现有的油田，重新捡起地质知识。他把地图放在他的枕头下，享受着他移动时它们发出的沙沙声。他看图，思索，思索，看图——终于有一天他得到了一份太平洋海岸的地质勘测图。他把勘测图摊在膝盖上，终于看到了他一生寻找的东西。 两个并在一起的拳头。 指节在上面。 左拳的左侧：纽波特海滩。右拳的右侧：贝弗利群山。那一排指节则是一连串的地形高点：积贮山，锡尔滩，锡格纳尔山，多明格斯群山，罗森克朗斯，鲍德温群山，英格尔伍德。 汤姆原本觉得它们全都不值一瞧。这些都是较低的小山。几棵乱糟糟的棕榈树。满是太阳鱼和乌龟的小溪。黄瓜田，西瓜地，鳄梨林。房屋，道路，店铺，沙土。并不太多。 可这一线高点有一个共同点。每个指节都覆盖着一块著名的油田。 每个指节，除了锡格纳尔山。 汤姆一遍又一遍地想着壳牌公司即将取出的岩芯。如果他们正在接近石油，那汤姆就得在地价狂涨之前赶快拿到一些钻探权。如果他们并没有接近石油，那汤姆就绝不会在那儿钻井，不管那儿的地质条件有多诱人。 从本质上来说，他的问题很简单。他必须看一看壳牌公司的岩芯。他必须。 可是怎么看？ 在可怕的条件下，雷诺兹仍然保持着营地的运行。 那些波斯人中大多数在以前都经历过霍乱，所以他们的免疫能力更强一些。但那仍然击倒了十七个波斯人，还有三个波兰人，一个俄国人，以及艾伦。如果得到正确的治疗，这种病就能得到控制。如果没有正确的治疗，这种病通常会是致命的。 雷诺兹尽了全力。他把水烧开，在里面放上盐和糖，命令所有病员每小时至少喝下一品脱水，有时甚至是一夸脱。如果有人拒绝或是胆敢发出抱怨，雷诺兹就会让两个粗壮的部落男子把病人按倒，然后他会亲自把水灌进那人的喉咙。他忙了整整一夜，一直干到第二天早上。 这种病的破坏性非常强，但不再有新的病人出现，那些已经病倒的人病情也不再加重。 所有人，除了艾伦。 艾伦的胃一直就不太好。在战争时期，他经常会匆匆吃一些煮得很糟糕的食物，第二天他的胃就会提出抗议。此时，虽然他尽力去喝面前的水，但他的嗓子既干又肿，简直无法吞咽。当其他人都在成品脱的喝着水时，艾伦只能小口的啜着。他的虚弱越来越严重。雷诺兹非常着急。 他跑到一辆卡车那儿，在它的水力系统那儿埋头苦找合适的管子。他找到一根长度合适的橡皮管，将它用热水煮了半个小时，然后又用干净水将管子里面冲洗了二十分钟。完了之后，他回到艾伦的帐篷里。 “听着，我以前从来没干过这个，老兄，不过我想这正是我学习的时候。如果很痛的话那就对不起了。” 他将管子塞进艾伦的鼻子。 “里面有个地方应该有个孔，可该死的我不知道在哪儿。” 管子在艾伦的鼻子里四处乱走，寻找着出口。艾伦的鼻膜又干又疼，但他只是抓紧毛毯的边缘，什么也没说。雷诺兹终于找到了他想找的地方。管子突然滑进艾伦的鼻子，一直伸进喉咙。 “哈！你能呼吸吗，老弟？” Allen nodded. 雷诺兹很是得意洋洋。他在管口接了一个漏斗，然后将盐糖水滴进漏斗。开始的时候他一分钟才倒一茶匙，然后逐渐加快频率，最后每十秒钟就有一匙水流进漏斗。有两次艾伦开始作呕，但两次他都没有真正吐出来。 “哈！”雷诺兹又说一声，眼中开始闪烁着宽慰。 第二天早上，他走进艾伦的帐篷。 “你觉得怎么样？” 艾伦试着挤着一丝微笑。这个动作非常无力，但仍然牵动了嘴唇，一小滴血从深深的裂纹中流出来。 “好吧，我马上送你去阿巴丹。英国波斯公司在那儿有家医院，里面有专业的医生和其它所有东西。一路上恐怕会非常难熬，但我们别无办法，只有一试。” Allen nodded.阿巴丹离他们有很远的一截路，而坐着卡车过去将会是极为可怕的旅程。如果他能活着抵达阿巴丹，他会很有希望恢复。如果不能…… 艾伦就像写字那样动着手。 “你要写字？别担心，你走之后我会管好营地的。” 艾伦闭上眼睛，攒了一点力气，然后摇摇头。他又做出写字的动作。 “哦，别，老伙计。我确定你用不着……”雷诺兹顿住。他现在已经很了解艾伦，知道最好别再争辩。“我去拿纸笔。纸，笔，还有见证人。” Allen nodded. 雷诺兹带来写字的材料，还有身体状况相对最好的两个波兰人。他们将艾伦扶靠到麻袋枕头上，然后把纸放到他膝盖上的木板上。在现场所有人的注视下，艾伦用颤抖的手写下，“最终遗嘱。神智清醒。用地权留给雷诺兹。还有钱。其它的一切（并不太多）留给母亲和父亲。爱留给所有人，尤其是夏洛特·邓洛普。艾伦·蒙塔古。” 艾伦被送上卡车的时候营地里的所有人都沉默无声。波兰人和俄国人摘下帽子，将头垂向地面。艾伦还有意识，但仅仅是有意识而已。他觉得自己就像是一个参加他自己葬礼的主宾。 下面的海滩上有一个男子带着两只狗，两只非常可爱的杂交狗，脏兮兮的白毛和粗粗短短的尾巴。那人不仅是在跟它们玩耍，他是在训练他们。起来——趴下——坐起——躺下——站直——不动——翻滚。两只狗迅速做完动作，完成这些程序之后它们开始兴奋地吠叫。汤姆喜欢狗，他一看到这两只狗就很喜欢。 然后那人换成另一个游戏。他从兜里拿出一个褐色的纸袋，然后打开。汤姆看不清里面是什么，但看上去像是一小块牛肉或是猪肉。那人在海滩上转了转，收集了一些石头。然后游戏就开始了。那人把那块肉在其中一块石头上擦了擦，然后把这块石头和其它两三块一起扔进沙丘上的高草中。他一声令下，那两只狗立刻跑到沙丘上寻找那块石头。随后是二十秒钟的绝对安静，然后突然有了动静。其中一只叼着一块石头跑向主人。另一只很恼火地追在那只后面，狂吠着想让它放下嘴里的珍宝。 游戏重复了几次。 汤姆走近观看着。在那人扔出擦过肉块的石头时，汤姆仔细地看着它的落点。每一次它们找回来的都是那块石头，而不是别的石头，有时是这只狗，有时是那只狗。它们从来没有找错石头或是没有找到石头。 那人玩得厌了，把最后那些石头全都扔进海里。两只狗追进海里，因为水中的一块浮木而大打出手。 汤姆走近那人。 “不错的狗。” “对，确实是。” “你把它们训练得很好。” “它们多少都会训练自己。它们还是小狗。”那人吹声口哨，两只狗向箭一样射向他，海滩上留下它们整齐的小爪印。“好小伙儿，科林。好丫头，皮帕。” 汤姆弯下身抚弄着较小那只狗的耳后。他收到一阵咸咸的乱舔作为回报。 “这个玩石头的游戏不错。” “对，严格说来它们并不是那种会叼回猎物的猎犬，但我从没见过比它们更好的猎犬。“ “我也没见过。能让我试试吗？” “你想扔东西让它们捡？” “这个怎么样？”汤姆说着从衣服里拿出一把袖珍小刀，然后把刀打开，在刀身和刀把的连结处有一小圈灰色的石油。他从海滩上捡起两块石头。两块都很平滑，但其中一块的中间有一片铁锈红。汤姆把刀上的油抹到红色的石头上，然后让两只狗把刀上上下下闻了一遍。“准备好了吗，伙计们？”他问。两只狗往后跑出十英尺，开始兴奋地吠叫。“那就开始了，伙计们。”汤姆将石头远远扔到沙丘之中。他自己想要找到那些石头恐怕都得费上好大一番工作。只要能找到其中的一块石头，那都会是一只很特别的狗，更别说找到正确的那一块。 “你用的不是肉，”那人说，“我一般都用肉。那才是他们想捡的东西，明白吗？他们想要吃肉。那是天生的。” “没错，”汤姆说，“我应该想到这点的。” 两只狗不见踪影，悄无声息。沙丘上的草不时会被海风之外的东西搅动，汤姆有一次还看见一只白色的短尾巴在绿色的草丛里不停摇摆。 “看，我说过了吧，”那人说，“那是他们的本性。在石头上抹一点肉，起作用的是它们的动物本性。” 汤姆没有听他说话。他的目光凝聚在那些沙丘上。突然之间，寂静被打破了。一声狗叫传了出来。草丛剧烈地摇晃着，就好像突然刮过一阵大风一样。两只小狗跃到海滩上。大的那只——科林——正和另外一只——皮帕——在地上打成一团，试着想让她放下战利品。他的运气不太好。虽然皮帕在回来的路上被撞倒了不止四次，但她仍然喘着气回到主人的脚边，然后将一块石头，一块满是口水、湿漉漉的石头吐到他手上。那块石头很平滑，中间有一条明显的铁锈红。 “哦，真是让我吃惊！”那人说。 汤姆转向他，露出大大的微笑。 “我有个提议。”他说。