Chapter 11 Part IV, verses 45-49

The rickety ride of the truck was extremely uncomfortable.Allen didn't have the strength to hold himself still, and he didn't even have the muscle flexibility to bounce with the truck as it drove over rocks and potholes.Reynolds had wanted to go with him, but Allen insisted that he stay at camp until the last signs of the illness were uprooted. Ahmod escorted Alan instead of Reynolds, and there were two tribal men who took turns driving the truck.Ahmad tried to get the salty sugar water to flow down the funnel, but the truck was bouncing really hard.Every hour they stop for ten minutes.Ahmod used this time to pour more water into the funnel, but he was not as skilled as Reynolds, and Alan was probably too weak to tolerate much water anyway.

The truck wobbled into Shiraz, then down a rough road toward Bushehr, and finally north toward the miasma-ridden plains around Abadan.The journey took three days.By the end, Allen was in a coma most of the time.His intestines kept leaking fluid, already as clear as glass. When his stretcher was solemnly carried into the British Persian Company's hospital in Abadan, the chief doctor shook his head. "It's useless, these people," he complained to the Indian assistant in a high-pitched voice, "they always send me patients in this state, and they're surprised when they die. I mean, Look at this guy. And that tube from some kind of motor vehicle that went down his throat. It really didn't work, it didn't work at all."

Allen was sober at this time, and he heard every word.His lips were too dry to speak, but if they could, they would say what was in his head, "Jesus will have mercy on me." Leaning his back against a sun-warmed yard wall, Tom watched the cottontails and jackrabbits arguing; the ground squirrels trotting by;But of all these scenes he saw most of all the Shell rig against the sky a hundred and fifty feet away. On the drilling platform, the drilling team is lifting the drill pipe section by section.Tom counted the drill pipe joint by joint. "It's almost there, little one," he said.

Pippa--or "Little Thing," as Tom promptly changed her name--was a lovely little rascal.She watched the original owner walk down the beach with Tom's extra fifteen dollars in his pocket, then turned to Tom, licked him, and elected him her newest full-time unpaid dog slave.She trotted after him by day, snuggled up to him by night, and stole food from his hands, convinced that there was no such thing as stealing between dogs and their masters. The little thing yawned, then struggled to reach into Tom's pocket, where she could smell the warm bacon.He pushes her away.Another section of drill pipe was raised from the well.

"It will be here soon." The rig was about a hundred yards from the truck stop on the top of the hill.Today is the day when Shell extracts the core, and half the local residents are betting on whether the core has any signs of oil.Two figures like bodyguards stood at the bottom of the rig, guarding against prying eyes at any time, even using their fists when necessary. Another section of drill pipe came out.The little thing had already given up trying to get the bacon, and fell into a half-asleep half-awake, with his little nose happily leaning on the magic pocket.By Tom's calculations, there was only one section of drill pipe left before the core came out.He shook the little thing awake, "Get up, cheer up, dear."

The little white dog yawned and shook its short tail. The last section of drill pipe is extended to drill the well.There was a big truck parked in the truck station above, its head already pointing down the hill.A man in a black suit leans against a fender and watches the scene.He was from Shell's laboratory, and he came to take the core for testing. "Okay, little one, get ready." Those little black ants on the drilling rig have now got the core.They bent down and took out all the samples carefully.Sure, they sniffed it, but it meant nothing.If it's full of oil like a sponge in a gas tank, they'll smell it.If it doesn't contain any oil like an empty barrel, they'll smell it too.Oilmen sniff their cores all the time.

Tom gave the little thing a push to get her up.He himself stood up and came a little closer.There is a dusty path between the rig and the truck station.Tom stopped forty yards from the path.He bent down and put his hand on the little thing's collar. Workers on the rig pack the core into a canvas bag and carefully lower it to the surface.The two bodyguards enjoyed their moment of glory.They lifted the canvas bag—a large core, two feet long and eight inches in diameter—and carried it up the path.Given the level of interest it would entail, Tom guessed that the two bodyguards would have escorted the sample all the way to the laboratory and into the Shell safe inside.

"Okay, little one, don't let me down at this time." Little things began to feel the tense atmosphere.She opened her mouth to pant, stopping every now and then to give a low, drawn-out howl of excitement. "Come on, little one, come on." Two bodyguards walked up the path ten yards.twenty yards. "All right, little one, all right." Thirty yards.For a moment they came as close as Tom could be to the path.One of them put down the cloth bag on his side and adjusted his gestures.The two continued walking.They were forty yards away, halfway to the precious truck stop.

"Go up, little one, go up." Tom let go of the little thing's collar.The little guy rushed out.She was a squat little thing, with bloodhounds in her mix, but Tom saw something else that was developing more quickly: a greyhound, perhaps, or a larger curly poodle. She ran across the stony grass like a white blob.The two bodyguards grinned as they watched her run over.People always grin when they see her.It was such a nice thing to have her. After a few seconds, the little thing caught up with the two bodyguards.She lunged at the canvas bag and sniffed it, as if to inhale the whole specimen.The two bodyguards immediately became suspicious and started to chase her away.

too late. The little thing jumped into the air.Avoiding boots and fists, she threw her head up to the brilliant sky, howling, howling, howling.There was a wide smile on Tom's dry lips. "You little darling," he said, "little darling." He blew a whistle to come, and the little thing sprinted merrily toward him through the dust.When she ran to him, Tom's hands were full of bacon, and it was all for her. The cholera germ is not eternal.If it doesn't kill you fast, it can't kill you again. Alan hovered between life and death for a week.Water flowed through him like the Hampshire brooks of his youth.But the cholera germ has missed its chance.Water excretion gradually slows down.Allen was able to drink water normally.He sat up in bed.He was terribly thin, with sunken cheeks and a dark complexion.His white hair was covered with sweat and dust until a nurse washed it clean.He is weak but is improving.

During his rounds that night, the doctor asked Allen how he was feeling. "I feel fine, doctor. I haven't thanked you enough yet." "Yeah, I think so. The locals who brought you here drove their trucks pretty wild. It wouldn't be surprising if they forgot you were still behind." Allen didn't like the little doctor.He was the worst of narrow-minded colonial moralists who, while living among foreigners, knew nothing of them. "Amod and the others have done their best to get me here intact. If it wasn't for them, I would have died." "Well," the doctor took out a thermometer and threw it to Alan, who obediently stuffed it under his tongue.After his patient could no longer speak, the doctor began to complain at length: bad food, bad climate, unreliable servants, lack of "recreation suitable for educated people".Allen wondered what the Doctor could expect when he signed Abadan to work.Ballet? The doctor took out the thermometer, "...not much better than a cricket. Hey! The temperature is rising. It's only half a degree, but..." The doctor touched Alan's chest, checked his pulse, eyes and tongue, "Do you have a fever? Chill?" "Maybe a little cold. Maybe a sign of recovery." "You must have had quinine, haven't you?" "Quinine?" "Abadan, of course, is a mudflat at the head of a swamp that is extremely warm. The swamp is a breeding ground for malaria." Allen was silent for a moment. "There is no malaria in the mountains, and there are no mosquitoes," he said. "I never need quinine." "Ah!" said the doctor, shaking the thermometer seriously. ＊＊ The doctor's "ah" is not wrong with "ah".Allen's body temperature rose to 100 degrees that night.The next morning the temperature reached 104 degrees.Allen only felt a splitting headache.For the first time since his discharge, Allen began to dream about the war.In other words, because dreams always bring a rational understanding of reality when they visit people, the war once again trapped Allen.There are all kinds of Tom in the dream.Tom, alive but dying.Tom for help.Captive Tom.Wounded Tom.Tom of No Man's Land.Tom stuck on the barbed wire.Tom fell from the bullet.Allen kept trying to find his brother and bring him home, but each time the nightmare would come in and keep them separated as before. After two days and one night, the high temperature dropped, the delirium subsided, and the headache also subsided.Allen thought he had quickly overcome the disease, but the doctor quickly shattered his illusion. "That's the way it is. Two days of sickness, three days of recovery. There is no need to be tense between attacks, but when they are, they are extremely dangerous." That's exactly what happened.There will always be two or three days when Alan will feel very miserable, but at least he will feel awake and miserable.Then his temperature would rise again, the terrible headache would return, and the delirium would return to shatter any sense of reality.During this time, Allen rolled and moaned in bed, shouting in his dreams.From beginning to end, his dreams have only one theme: war, and one protagonist: Tom. Allen didn't care about the condition.He knew that malaria was unlikely to kill him, and physical pain was nothing to him.But dreams haunted him.Allen had spent four years grieving Tom's death.Four years to get used to this fact.He has made progress.He has learned how to find joy, love and hope.He had never forgotten Tom, but he was no longer devastated by his death.until now.The dream whizzed by, as if reminding him that he would never recover.So Allen lay in the haze of a high fever, sweating, moaning, and thinking endlessly of his lost brother. During the intermission, he wrote to tell Reynolds he was getting better.He wrote to his parents, telling them that he was a little sick and that the doctor advised him to rest for a few weeks just in case. He wrote to Lottie, telling her the truth; telling her about his dreams and hallucinations; telling her about the drilling in the mountains.Every time he finished a letter to Lottie, he would go over it, sign it, and put it away.Later he will burn all these letters.But the situation is not the same as before.Is he still special to her?he does not know.When they met in Piccadilly, she treated him like an ordinary person in her endless circle of friends.Was his letter addressed to an unrequited lover or to a wartime hallucination?he does not know.He wanted to harden his heart and forget about her, or at least let her slowly sink into the past.But he can't.He couldn't do it when he was healthy, and he can't do it now when he's sick.So he wrote to Lottie, dreaming of Tom, through the trance of confused dreams and waking sleeps of a fever patient. The corridors were once painted green, but time and sunlight have left the paint almost gone.A rusty screen door shuts to keep flies out, except it has mesh as big as a grapefruit.A line of ants crawled zigzagging through the gap under the door, as if the gap had been reserved for them. Tom knocked on the door frame. "Mrs. Hershey? Hello?" No one answered, but there seemed to be a movement inside. Tom took down the hook and opened the door.He called again from the doorway, "Hello? Mrs. Hershey?" There was another movement.After Tom's eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw a mass of white figure lying on the battered sofa in the middle of the room.The figure looked like a laundry basket full of dirty rags.The laundry basket hiccupped and then groaned. "Mrs. Hershey, my name is Tom Calloway. May I come in?" Tom's perception also adjusted to the musty gloom.The room smelled of alcohol and vomit.Violet Hershey sat up and rubbed her fat neck.Her skin was gray and dirty.Her hair looked as if it had been cut with pliers six months ago and then left to grow into a straw mat. "No, sir, I have nothing. There's nothing to steal here. It's no use wandering about in this room." "Ma'am, I know you own some land around here. I was wondering if you'd be interested in making some money out of it." "I don't have land. I have nothing to steal. I don't—" The murmur broke off abruptly, and Hershey slowly got used to the surprise of being woken up at two o'clock in the afternoon. "Who the hell are you?" "My name is Tom Car--" "Sir, I don't care who the hell you are. Can't you even get an old lady to help?" Tom went over and lent her an arm.She doesn't need arms, what she needs is the support of her whole body.The smell of booze and vomit was sickening.Tom dragged her to her feet.Hershey shuffled into the bathroom, opened the door and sat down on the toilet.When she came out, she looked a little more sober and more alive. "Are you going to help me get a drink or do I have to do it myself?" Tom looked around.The kitchen was too dirty for him to set foot in.The dimly lit living room was filled with old furniture, none of which was worth more than firewood, but nothing that looked remarkably like a wine cabinet.Everything was covered with dust and sea sand blown in through the holes in the doors and windows.The floors creaked whenever Tom moved.Then he saw the target: a clean gallon glass container, the kind drugstores use for root beer.Tom removed the stopper and sniffed.It's pure alcohol in it. "Bourbon Prohibition, that's what I call it," Hershey yelled, "Bourbon Prohibition." Tom found a dirty glass on the floor, shook two ants out of it, and poured half a glass of alcohol into it.He took the drink, but Hershey wouldn't reach out to take it. "My arm," she whimpered, "it hurts like hell." He bent a little more, and a little more.Hershey jumped up and planted a sensual kiss on Tom's lips, yelling "Ha!" in triumph. "Ha! Man! Only after one thing." She gulped down all the drink like it was just ginger beer, and held out her glass for more.Tom filled the glass again, but this time he left it on the table and she had to get up to fill it. "Mrs. Hershey, I'm an oilman interested in drilling for oil on your land. If you agree, I'll give you forty dollars per acre a year, starting today. If I find oil, you'll get to 15 percent of the profits of the concession." "Oh, I've been promised and made an offer before. But when—" "First, though, I need to confirm that the land I'm talking about really belongs to you. Not that I doubt—" "Oh, come on, take advantage of it as much as you can. My bloody husband left bloody memories, sad memories--oh, damn it, bloody nonsense, I mean happy memories--he's in charge These things. He's a good man, sir, whatever you say about him. But now I'm all on my own, without any protection, and I don't bother to remember them, and they're all in my head, and nobody can take them away." Chattering away, she reached under the sofa for a roll of paper.She threw the papers to Tom, but she had no strength, and the papers fell to the floor.Tom picked them up, being careful not to touch her dirty dress or the dusty floor.Most of that paper is rubbish.Laundry tickets, shopping lists, unopened letters, invoices, some paperwork for the installment purchase of a Model T Ford, and some repossession papers for the car.There was also a valid deed declaring the twenty-seven acres of Signal Hill to be the legal property of Mr. Josiah Brand Hershey.The date is 1899.Seems reasonable.The land is now being cultivated by a pair of elderly Japanese men who grow cucumbers, watermelons and an acre or two of uneven avocados.The problem is, under California law, Japanese can't own land, so most of the farmers in this area rent land from white landowners.The rent on this land may be all that Hershey earns. "That's it," said Tom, waving the paper. "Strictly speaking, I should take this to the county hall and have the county clerk look it up in the book, but it's between friends." A deal, right? Mutual trust." His tone was warm and friendly. "You shouldn't speak so badly of him, sir. He has his faults, I agree, but he's a good man, and you shouldn't say those things." "No slander, ma'am, only a transaction between friends." Tom allowed himself to appear magnanimous, but really he was only protecting his own interests.Government House was full of lease-hounds and agitators, and by the time he came back to sign Hershey there would be two dozen other people trying to sweet-talk her into selling them the franchise.Tom broke into a big "trust me" smile.He threw a stack of dollars onto the dirty table. "Madam, if we sign the contract today, the dollars will go to your name." "I'm going to count first." Tom knew that if he handed her the money, it would disappear into her arms like lightning. "First deal." "I just want to pet them. I'm just an old—" "Ma'am, it doesn't matter if you take them to bed and eat them, but we have to make a deal first." "Eighty dollars." "Eighty yuan per mu? That's too much. I can raise it to fifty yuan." "I know about Shell, don't think I don't. I know there's a lot of people trying to take advantage of a widowed old lady. I know—" "Mrs. Hershey, Shell drills survey wells. It's called that because no one knows what they're going to find. If you—" "There are a lot of people on the mountain who became millionaires just because they sold a small piece of broken land. Million-million-rich-man. And you only give me a pitiful sixty dollars per acre of land." Hershey began to cry, Big tears rolled down her face. "Mrs. Hershey, you know all too well that's bullshit. If you want to be a millionaire, you've got to get a good deal with a capable oilman. If oil isn't found, nobody gets rich." "Oh, I've got sponsors, young men, attractive men. They all promise—" "I'm not a sponsor," Tom said impatiently. "I'm an oilman. I have a contract here. Either we sign now or you give up. If you give up I'm never going back. If Shell drills A good well, and in the end nothing but dust is dug up, and your land will be worthless, as you know it well." "I'm just a lonely old lady. I'm just—" Tom threw the papers on the table and looked at his watch. "I'm leaving in a minute... fifty seconds..." Hershey wept, sipping the last of her drink. "... Forty seconds... Thirty seconds..." "I don't have my glasses on. I can't read the fine print. I know you lawyers. I know..." "... twenty seconds... fifteen seconds... ten seconds..." Hershey stopped crying and grabbed the papers. "Sixty yuan per mu, 20% concession, and one more: 'No oil, no land' after six months." Tom laughed.Clearly Hershey has learned something from previous visits to the sponsors. "Sixty yuan per acre. The termination clause you want is written on it." "Twenty percent of the franchise. Twenty-five. I'm on my own. I—" "Fifteen percent. Take it or leave it." Hershey seemed ready to cry again, wondering if another wave of tears would wring more money out of Tom.The breeze gently blew the pile of money on the table.The ants paused at the door for a moment, waiting for the new dust to settle before continuing to raid the house.Hershey decided not to cry anymore. "I'm just an old lady living here and doing everything by myself. I—" Tom stood up.He picked up the contract.He picks up the bills. "Goodbye, Mrs. Hershey. Thank you for your time." His steps creaked on the rustling floor.The screen door rattled as he pushed it open.The little thing, which was busy cleaning its paws, raised its head and wagged its tail. "Let's go, little girl." They walked away. They had hardly gone fifty yards when there was confusion behind them.Mrs. Hershey staggered all the way to the door and poked her head over the rickety railing in the corridor. "Okay, man! My God! Fifteen percent. And don't forget, I tore a sleeve chasing you." The air vibrated slightly with the gunshots.Wild men rushed out of the valley, turned, and charged down again, robes flying, pistols shiny, knives blazing.Truckers drive like crazy to avoid being overtaken, risking losing their axles every time they get stuck in a pothole or hit a larger-than-average rock.Men and children hung on either side of the truck, clutching it with one hand and waving shirts or flags or weapons with the other.By some miracle, the only real bloodshed that afternoon involved two juicy lambs, slaughtered with great ceremony by the fat Persian cook and two helpers in the back of the kitchen. The way George Reynolds showed joy was by pumping more blood onto his crimson face and shaking Allen's hand like he was trying to tear his arm off. "God, man, it's good to see you! Gosh, really! The camp has changed, totally changed." Allen withdrew his hand.He had lost fifteen pounds since his illness, and his strength had not fully recovered.He greeted everyone by name, hugged them in the Persian way, and asked everyone the questions they were dying for him to ask (Hussein, how is his shoulder? Muhammad, how is his driving? Any progress? Ahmad, has his goddamn English improved?) Even so, when the feast and jubilation began to subside, a sombre atmosphere began to descend on the camp.The well has been dug to fifteen hundred feet, but progress is slowing down every day.More importantly, Reynolds shook his head and muttered, losing his usual composure. "I don't want to beat around the bush, man." He led Allen to his tent. "Look at these samples." One of the few advantages of percussion drilling is that you have a very complete record of the rock formations you've drilled through because you're constantly cleaning the well with a dredge.Reynolds collected all the samples collected so far from the well and sorted them. "Here's the sandstone formation we went through in the first place. It's no surprise. Then there's the keystone, the damn strong keystone, so hard you can't get through. I'm telling you, man, I'm so excited Decided to stop drilling so you could be there and enjoy the discovery of oil." Allen looked at his partner sharply, "Then?" "Then I decided not to stop. I kept digging. We broke through the keystone and here we are." He handed Alan a sample bag, and Alan opened it.Inside is sand.The sand that once made up the seabed, the seabed they drilled to hit.The sand is as dry as tens of thousands of years of bone. No oil. Not a drop.Not at all.Not at all. The little thing heard the noise and woke up with a cry. Tom, who was dozing, woke up with a start and jumped up. The scattered inhabitants of Signal Hill put on their coats and rushed out into the twilight of the crowd. Shell's rig found oil.Enough oil was found to wake up an entire town.Enough to shake the ground.The rig is a magnet, drawing all life to it.Why?Because oil is not just a commodity like cocoa, nickel or iron.Oil is fuel.It's warmth, it's power, it's light.In fact, it's pretty close to life itself - the next best thing in the world to money.And there it was, shooting out violently, into the sky, and landing hard on the ground a hundred and twenty feet or more away.Faces, beards, and hats of men facing the wind shone with this fine black spray.No one minds.Children and adults alike run forward to wet their heads, reaching out to catch the precious fluid.One even knelt under an oil fountain, bare chested, raised his head against the black rain, and fell as if by magic. The rig was a magnet because everyone, including the youngest kids, understood what was going on.On this particular night, the entire world is changed forever.It's not even like winning the lottery; it's better than the lottery.To win the lottery, you even have to buy a lottery ticket.You know, the lottery is just a matter of luck.Everyone buys a lottery ticket.A certain percentage of people will have good luck.As long as you persist long enough, you will definitely get your own luck. Oil is not like that.It was like being touched by the finger of God.And God doesn't just send you a check with a few zeros on it - the gift is for people - real people, strong and shrewd - for your profit.The lucky ones are the ones who own land on Signal Hill that night, any land will do.Overnight, they'll be backyard millionaires, or if they think right.People's minds will turn to the share of the concession, the size of the land, the question of drilling.Some people are presented with such an opportunity and let it slip by.They might have agreed to 15 percent when they could have asked for 30 percent.They might sign a deal with a knock-out sponsor.They may be tempted to sell millions of dollars worth of land for a measly few hundred or thousands for a small sum. The frenzy continued as Shell personnel desperately tried to bring the rig under control.People continue to gather.Now it's not just the residents of Signal Hill, but people from farther afield: Long Beach, Wilmington, Huntington Beach.It's all those envious people.Those who don't have half an acre in heaven.They watched too, but they shut their mouths shut and dragged their children away from the black fountain. Tom, holding the little thing, was also watching.He had been waiting for this moment all his life.His childhood in Hampshire, war, prison, hardship, self-made, do-it-all American experience.All of this, every minute of it, no matter how sad or how bad it is, is for this memorable moment.He took a deep breath.He will bet everything.He will win big - or lose all bets. The thick black fountain continued to pour over everyone—winners and losers, dreamers and envious ones. "Probably a mine." "possible." "Or a false bottom. Or a fold in the rock, boy." "Yes, maybe." Since Allen fell ill, he and Reynolds have grown closer than ever.If they used to call each other Montague and Reynolds.These days, Reynolds just calls Allen "bro," and Allen calls him George if he wants to call Reynolds. "Look at those valley walls. There's folds, tremors, massive uplift, and some pretty violent localized movements. The fact is that the rock formations around here are all uplifted—or rather, uplifted. Can't tell where the topography is. It went up, but it went down somewhere else. You might dig a hundred feet in another place and oil would come out." Allen tapped his fingers on the folding table, crunching and grinding the pile of dry sand dug from the bottom of the well.They were talking by the light of a kerosene lamp.The kerosene was brought up by truck from Shiraz, and the merchants in Shiraz bought it from the British Persian Company's factory in Abadan.They were using oil produced by their competitors two hundred miles away, and for all they knew, they were sitting less than a mile away from directly over their own gigantic oil field.The smoky yellow lights imprinted the thin figure of Allen on the sloping canvas wall, next to the sturdy figure of Reynolds. "Yes, George, but we have to take all the factors into account. Drilling wells has become harder and harder. The weight of the cable in the well is many times the weight of Mrs. Hubbard at the bottom. No matter how we fix the boiler, we have to be aware of it The limit has been reached. "Okay, that's right." "The geology may still be very favorable, but now the situation has turned against us." "Well, that's right." Allen's fingers could be seen still tapping quietly on the billowing tent cloth.George Reynolds stroked his thick, dark beard.He'd allowed his beard to grow longer and more pirate-like since he'd started drilling, as if competing with the Qashqai for some sort of best beard in camp. "But that's not my main concern," Allen said. "no?" "Money. It takes a lot of money to keep the camp going, and I can't think of a way to reduce it. We needed all those people last week to clear the road after the landslide... The truth is, sooner or later we will run out of money, so we Every penny has to be spent on ideas. Day one. Hours." "Yes." Reynolds sighed heavily, "I didn't tell you that, bro, my Aunt Enid passed away a while ago—no, don't feel bad, I hardly know her, she lives in A farm in Leicestershire hoarding money like a magpie. Anyway, she left me five thousand pounds, I hear. Use it to drill a well, if you want." "You are so generous, George! Thank you, really!" "Don't, brother, don't be stupid. If you dig something up, you can give me a share. If you don't dig it up, we can be beggars together... You know, the most important thing for me in this world is to be in this valley. Get the oil out." "Yes, yes, me too." They were silent for a moment.Allen spoke the truth, or almost the truth.Besides Lottie, finding the oil became the only thing that still mattered to Tom after his death.He wondered if there was any other industry like this in the world: an industry that would steal your soul, an industry that could romanticize the most obstinate mind.The money Reynolds offered was a lot of money, but £5,000 would only last them three months at most.Winter was approaching, and drilling during the short, cold days would have been tough enough, even if the boiler hadn't failed. "I told you about Mickiewitz, didn't I?" Reynolds interrupted his thoughts. "No." "He said he couldn't work tomorrow. Apparently it's another Saint's Day. A religious holiday." "The saint of Harlem with endless excuses, I guess... what do you tell him?" "I told him you'd talk to him in the morning." Morale among the Poles began to decline, and their religious festivals began to increase. "Would you say that Ahmod is about to become a full-time driller?" "Yeah, I'll say . . . I think." "Yes, I think so too. And Alibaba." "Alibaba? Alibaba? Well, maybe, if necessary." "Now is the time, George. Those Poles don't want to be here any longer, and I don't want to force them...I'll tell them they can spend the rest of the year glorifying their saint." A long silence continued.At night, Mother Hubbard was thrown on a slack cable at the bottom of the well.A gust of wind blew through, and the slack rope snapped tight on the winch and pulleys, sending out a low moan into the night.It sounded like the moan of a dying oil well. "We've got to change places, George. Tomorrow morning. We've got to move the rig and drill a well three miles up the valley. Mohammed Emery Two. Reynolds was silent for a moment, then nodded in agreement.This is a solemn moment. 他们的钱可以钻两口油井，可能是三口，而他们的第一口刚刚失败。 其他人可能会等到早上。但汤姆不会。 阿拉米托斯一号就像美人鱼吸引水手那样把石油商全都吸引了过来。壳牌公司的钻塔附近那因为石油而滑溜溜的地面变成了一个满是主意、交易、出价和握手的市场。离喷油井两个街区远的地方，一个有眼光的理发师点起灯火，以每杯五毛钱的价格出售热咖啡，他的妻子则分发着自制的胡萝卜蛋糕，而且拒不收钱。汤姆在外面的人行道上闲逛着。他已经小有名气了。人们会把他指出来。“就是他，英国的汤姆，那个在山上有一片地的家伙。”钻探工纷纷前来找他，给他看他们的证书。 “晚上好，老弟。我听说你有一些土地。” "That's right." “在你看来，那是能产油的土地吗？” 汤姆解释了那片地的地点——不是最佳地点，但也不坏——以及面积：二十七亩。当他提及这片地的大小时，那些人都会走着走着突然站住。没有人有二十七亩的土地。除了壳牌公司外——它几乎不算在内——没人有那么多的土地。从那一刻起，他们的对话就会改变策略。那些钻探工不再向汤姆提问，而是请求他进行考虑。 “嗯，先生，很高兴能够认识你。我叫戴夫·拉兹莱尔，你可能听到过别人把我喊做'无油井'，因为我在托里峡谷里碰到的坏运气。但我在钻探方面是一把好手，而且我想没有什么钻塔是我操作不来的，而且我得说，我在过去可能碰到了一些坏运气，可那统统都已经过去了，我最近钻的两口井都是产油井，还有相当不错的油井在……”“无油井”吐了口痰在地上，暗想自己是说得太多还是说得不够。就像很多石油商一样，他喜欢咀嚼烟草，因为在产油井附近的任何地方烟火都很危险。“还有，不管怎么说，我在想你近期内有没有可能需要一些帮助？” 汤姆拒绝了一些人，接受了另一些人。他需要经验——他知道自己仍然缺乏专业知识——但他最需要的是热切。他无法支付很高的薪水，但他从石油开采权中拿出一些份额分发出去，就好像那是一些钻石，而从某种意义上来说它们就是钻石。 凌晨两点钟的时候，他拥有了一支钻探队：坚韧，经验丰富，和他一样充满渴望。 第二条就是钱。钻一口井需要两万五千美元左右。靠砍低薪水和分发开采权，汤姆可以将这个数字减到两万一或是两万二。在他所拥有的钱和所需要的钱之间还有一万美元的差距。 no problem. 有的是赞助商。其中有些满嘴空话没有实钱，全都是骗子的亲戚，这些人一点都指望不得。汤姆跟他们完全划清界限。他会问一些钻塔、设备、投资者和销售合同方面的重要问题和尖锐问题。他用盘问筛选掉那些失败者，直到他周围剩下的全是真正的石油合同方面的建筑师，那些可以在混凝土单人房间里拟出一份商业合同的人。汤姆找到一个他信任的人，到了早上六点的时候，他已经做好了所有必要的安排。 他应该已经累了，可他并不累。他已经花光了所有的每一分钱，可他拥有更好的东西。他有土地。他有钻塔。 而且他可以闻到石油的气味。 冬天来临了。 在下雪的日子里根本不可能钻井，所以艾伦会让工人们都呆在帐篷里，看着山谷消失在它那白色的披风之下。如果雪停了，那么第二天早上他们会在黎明之前起床，敲碎绳索和滑轮上冻结的冰块。他们会把燃料铲进摇晃的旧锅炉，然后站在锅炉周围喝着早茶，对它带来的温暖充满感激。他们穿着所有衣服上床睡觉，只除了靴子，而且他们连靴子也都塞进被子，免得冰块在夜间把它们冻成硬块。 事故也开始发生。一个波斯钻工让沉重的捞砂工具给砸到脚上，失去了三个脚趾头，而且以后必须拄着拐杖行走。更糟糕的是，有一辆卡车试图在恶劣的气候里爬上山，结果翻了车，还死了一名司机。他们在营地举行了一个葬礼，将死者布置成圣徒雕像那样，下葬的时候将一本可兰经放在他的腹部以驱走魔鬼。 俄国人对这种天气非常适应，而且不受天气影响像往常那样从容不迫地干着活，但波斯人可就受大罪了。那些部落男子一般都是在低地处的屋中度过冬天。在这种条件下去室外干活，这个念头吓倒了他们。将近三分之一的雇工直接就消失了，营地看上去空荡荡的，没有生气。 艾伦抓到了四个人在抽鸦片。他训斥了他们，并没收了鸦片，但他们很是闷闷不乐，四天后，等运货卡车从设拉子开来的时候，他闻到了这种奇怪的烟味，并发现他们围在一个鸦片枪旁边，两眼呆滞，神情茫然。他们仍处在鸦片的效果之下，因此艾伦什么也没做，但是第二天，他叫他们收拾行李走人。营地的气氛越来越冷淡，越来越压抑。 但是，虽然发生了这些事，穆罕默德·埃默里二号仍在取得进展。他们每通过一个里程碑就会小小地庆祝一番：两百五十英尺为他们赢得了大量的茶叶、杏仁蜜饯和烟草。五百英尺为他们赢得了用宝贵的煤炭点燃的营火，两个年轻人在火上进行了叉烤。现在他们已经到达了九百三十英尺，整个营地正嘈杂地忙着计划千尺盛典。 同时，雷诺兹和艾伦每晚都会碰头研究他们的最新岩石样本，并将这些样本与埃默里一号的样本进来对比。和往常一样——可能总是这样——地质情况无法确定。 “我们得一直钻下去，直到找到它。”雷诺兹说。 “或者说直到所有的钱都用完。” 一天一天地过去，现金资源逐渐减少，岩石样本毫无帮助，失败机率越来越大。 生命中会有一些重要的时刻。结婚。洗礼。die.第一次亲吻，第一次做爱，第一次心碎。但是，不管这些事情感觉起来有多重要，它们都算不了什么。每天这些事都会上百万次发生在上百万个人身上。人人都会经历。它们没什么特别的。 但大多数人都不是石油商。大多数人都没有在同一时间同一地点离产油井只有五百码的地方聚齐土地、钻塔和钻探队。 汤姆有。 他等了四十天以后才拿到钻塔（从印度一个破产的勘探公司那儿买的），但他们已经将钻塔迅速组装起来。此时，在一个雨点飞溅的晚上，六点钟，他们将钻头降到离砂质地面还不到三英尺的高度。这比结婚更重大。这比出生更重大。这可能——仅仅是可能——会成为一个油井。 “都站好了，伙计们，”“无油井”说道，拿出两个棕色纸袋，每个里面都装着一品脱走私威士忌。“从钻头落下起一切都得按规矩来。” 他把酒瓶递出去，每个人都慢慢地喝了一大口，将一些酒吐到手上，然后郑重地用双手抚摸着鱼尾状的钻头。这天的早些时候，杰布·弗莱克把熔炉烧得白热，然后将钻头的刀刃锤打得如此之利，简直都可以拿来刮胡子了。当然，钻头是用不着那么利的。只要在土里盘旋一分钟，它的利刃就会消失无踪。但钻探队的每一个成员对挖掘出来的东西——不管它是什么——都拥有百分之一的份额，所以这个团体的迷信程度比汤姆见过的任何人都要强，包括他在战争时期见过的人。 汤姆喝了一大口，将酒在嘴里咕咚了一下，吐到手上，然后给钻头施加了洗礼。他把那口酒吞下。那是一种火辣辣、冒出蓝色火焰的强烈味觉；禁酒令的真正违法精神。不知为什么这种味觉让他想起了丽贝卡·卢易。他突然感到一阵强烈的希望，希望她能陪在他身边。他恼火地往地上吐了一口，把威士忌传了下去。 “无油井”接过酒瓶冲着小东西点点头。 “她也是队员。” “对，我想是。” “那么。”“无油井”摇了摇酒瓶。 "So?" “那么她也得喝。” 汤姆想表示反对，但不得不服从集体意见。他把他那脏兮兮的工人的手蹭了蹭工装裤的屁股，然后弯下腰把小东西举到酒瓶边。“无油井”洒了点威士忌到她身上，她愤怒地乱叫了几声，尾巴摇得更凶。然后汤姆把她放到钻头下面，就像一个羊羔祭品。那些人满意地点点头。“她会成功的，”“无油井”说，指的是钻头，而不是狗。 “那我们就开工吧。”汤姆说。他的声音很平静，几乎是恭敬的。他选对了语气。 钻探工们知道该怎么做。锅炉已经点着。压力合适，钻头有力而稳定。首先，他们抬起那块巨大的托板，这导致钻头又往下低了一点。“无油井”把它放在沙地上休息，温柔的就像一个母亲在亲吻她的孩子。他点点头，“锅炉鲍伯”·科尔文扳上阀门，阀门将压力传给传动钻杆。传动钻杆开始旋转。钻杆跟着传动钻杆开始旋转。钻头快速地旋转着，钻进土地，然后就被埋了起来。汤姆发出一声叹息，四分之一是因为痛苦，四分之三是因为狂喜。 他刚刚起钻他的第一口油井。 1921年春天。 天气仍然很冷，但山谷的地面已经没有积雪，流经山谷的河流因为冰雪融化而河水高涨、十分危险。有两只山羊在岸堤倒塌时没有站稳，结果被冲走了，最后在两英里远的下游被找到，当时它们都已经淹死了。营地各处都是一片泥泞。冬天对抗寒冷的斗争已经变成了一场新的对抗泥泞的斗争。 ＊＊ 穆罕默德·埃默里二号也失败了。 他们没有钻出石油。他们没有发现石油的迹象。从井底取出的碎石没有给艾伦和雷诺兹带来任何希望。如果他们有时间有钱，那他们当然可以再继续下去。问题是他们没有。随着日子一天天过去，他们的钱渐渐枯竭，而时间则是用金钱来计算的。正如雷诺兹所说，“如果我们现在不换地方，那就别再换了。到时我们不会有足够的钱把第三口井打到足够的深度。” 钻塔有一百英尺高。除了钻塔外，他们还得搬动锅炉、水泵房、凸轮齿轮、索具和缆绳。就算搬运一小截距离也得所有的人干上一周。 “是时候换个该死的地方了，”阿莫德说。 但有些事让艾伦感到不快。他抬头看着亮闪闪的雪线，摸着下巴（用烧开的雪水刚刚刮过），然后不时大咬一口已经吃了一半的扁面包，这是当天的早餐。去年病好之后他的体重有所上升，但还是比以前要瘦。他脸上出现了以前从未有过的皱纹，这些皱纹甚至在战争时期都没出现过。 谷壁的上方，一排残破的白棉布旗子开始从雪中伸出。那些旗子是艾伦去年插在那儿的，标志着埃默里发现的油砂岩层。因为岩层已经暴露出地面，所以不可能找到任何石油，但它至少可以指出一条曾经存在过石油的线。 那排旗子更加能够支持雷诺兹急着想要搬井的举动。那些旗子离山顶不超过两千英尺，有时甚至只有一千一百英尺。如果用同样的逻辑来推断谷底的地质，那石油应该在一千一百英尺到两千英尺之间被找到。第一口井他们钻了一千八百英尺，而第二口已经超过了两千英尺。一切逻辑都说明他们现在就应该换个地方，起动他们的第三口也是最后一口井…… 艾伦最终下了决心，“不，”他说，“钻塔就留在那儿。” “什么？天啊，老弟！放弃是没有用的。我们的钱还可以——” “我们不是放弃。我们要继续的挖下去。” “老天，我们不是讨论过这个问题吗？” “见鬼的锅炉不想再往下钻了，”阿莫德帮上一句，“糟糕没用又见鬼的烂东西。” “继续。”艾伦果断地说，“乔治，抬头看看那些旗子。你看到什么？” “我看到一个深入地下一千一百英尺到两千英尺之间的油田。再继续挖下去没有任何意义。” 艾伦点点头，“我也一直这么看。所以我确信我们得换个地方。但没准我们一直都看错了。没准山谷已经给了我们所需要的线索，但我们因为太盲目而没有看见。” 雷诺兹哼了哼。他不喜欢侦探小说。他没看见什么两面性。 艾伦用面包指了指最左边的旗子。“那面旗子离我们至少有四英里远，我就是在那个地方发现了一小点真正的石油。”然后他又指向右边，山谷的上方。因为山谷的曲线，那排旗子逐渐消失在视线中。“那边，油田又延伸了至少三英里。我猜想它还在继续延伸，但因为上面的岩崩，所以我没法过去。” 雷诺兹点点头。这是小孩都能明白的道理。他也明白。 “那么你看到了什么？这些旗子告诉我们什么？”艾伦问。 “告诉我们油田在一千一百英尺——” “多大规模的油田？大还是小？” “拜托，老弟，如果我们能找到那该死的玩意儿，那将是巨大的油田。不是吗？七英里长，天知道有多宽！我放弃伦敦那舒服的小窝可不是为了来找什么小得可怜的油井。” 艾伦点点头，“正是。确实。油田——如果存在的话——会非常巨大。它不应该在我们挖井的地方出现微小的变化。如果这儿有石油，那它就在我们的脚下。” 他的语气中带着绝对的权威。这种语气他在法国或是佛兰德斯的战场上带兵时曾经用过。当他用这种语气说话时，没有人会表示反对。今天也没有。艾伦又咬了一口面包，然后把剩下的扔到一边。 “我们继续往下挖。” 汤姆一生中和多少个女人上过多少次床？ he does not know.答案是很多，这是当然的了，但他总觉得去数这个实在是太卑劣粗鄙了。 他的第一个女人是苏珊·赖辛赫斯特，惠特科姆一个农夫那脸颊红润的女儿。他最常去找的情人是劳拉·科尔，战前在伦敦跟他好上的一个店员。他的第一个外国征服者是一个法国女人，阿梅莉，他对她已经毫无印象。他最灾难性的一次是跟艾伦的莉塞特，在圣苔丝的那个糟糕的八月的早上。 可在所有这些美貌动人、笑靥如花、酒窝深陷的姑娘中，只有一个人经常在夜晚进入汤姆的梦乡，在白天进入他的想像。只有一个：极少几个汤姆甚至都没想过要跟她上床的女人中的一个。 丽贝卡。 他无法把她置之脑后。他不愿意想到她的职业。她那深切的凝视和冒昧的问题让他愤怒。更重要的是，退一万步说，他甚至都不确定自己觉得她有吸引力：那扁平的胸部、过高的鼻子以及深陷的双眼。 可这并不是关键。简单的事实就是：他无法把她置之脑后。早春的一天，他把油井交给“无油井”负责，走到火车站，搭上一辆开往怀俄明的火车。 他决定要找到他。他觉得这几乎跟找到石油一样重要。 ＊＊ 他到那儿的时候，一切都没改变。楼下的面包房仍在做着生意。楼上的房门仍然需要刷一层油漆。一条漆布仍然从墙上剥落下来。 汤姆敲敲门。 no answer. It's still early.这个时候她不应该——谢天谢地——不应该还有任何客人在她屋里，但她也不可能已经起床、穿好衣服并出门去了。汤姆又敲了敲门，时间够长，声音够大，足以敲醒屋里的任何人。 no answer. 他靠到门上，感觉到了阻力。他试了试门的强度和重量，然后用肩膀撞向它。门的中间弯了弯，然后就裂开了。 屋里是空的。不仅仅是没有她，而是空荡荡的。屋里有一张桌子，两把椅子，还有那张床，被剥去了所有的床单之后，它看上去更像一个巨大的黄铜甲虫卧在角落里。甚至连气味都没有了。屋里不再有丽贝卡的气味，只有旧地毯和浑浊空气的气味。 有整整两分钟，汤姆就呆若木鸡地站在那儿。 小小的厨房和浴室也都空了。里面什么都没有：连个咖啡杯都没有。汤姆茫然地准备离去，然后，他突然灵光一闪，跪到地上，看向床下。地上放着一个廉价的手提箱，箱子被推到了墙边。汤姆拽着箱子把它拖了出来。