Chapter 12 Part IV Sections 50-54

As he dragged the box into the light, something fell from it: a bound exercise book.Tom opened it.Each page has two vertical rows of numbers written in pencil.Each row is neatly marked with a word written in Polish, or simply a date. Tom tried unsuccessfully to read Polish.Of the two brothers, Alan was the linguist, Tom was not.Those numbers are also inexplicable.The first vertical row seems to contain random numbers, some preceded by a minus sign, and others are obviously positive numbers.The vertical column on the right says "Dlug".The number in the dlug column at the top of the first page is very large, then gradually decreases, and becomes zero on the ninth page.The number zero is circled twice with a red pen.The rest of the pages are all blank.

Tom stared at it for a few seconds. Then, it becomes organized. Dlug means debt.Rebecca kept the books all the time, keeping track of the money she had earned and the debts she still owed.When the debt is paid off, her job is over. Tom reached for the box, but he already knew what he'd find: Rebecca's overalls.He broke the lock on the box.Inside were two crimson low-necked shirts, a black lace choker, a tube of lipstick, some pairs of silk stockings, and a little darker lace.Tom slammed the lid back on and stood up abruptly.He had a strange mixture of excitement, loss, confusion, and anger.Tom felt more than ever that he wanted to find Rebecca.Urgent and futile.

Tom kicked the box back under the bed, and then, hating the idea that someone else might find it and get pleasure from it, Tom got down on his knees and dragged it out again.He'd lift it over the edge of the rails, douse it with kerosene, and burn it clean. But not including that notebook. Tom needs to leave a keepsake of the woman he wants.Those clothes represented a part of him that he had always been ashamed of.That book represents...well, what the hell does it represent?Rebecca must be the only prostitute in the entire continental United States who uses double-entry bookkeeping.He flipped the pages quickly, enjoying Rebecca's handwriting.As he flipped through the pages, some dates caught his eye.For example, on December 17, 1919, nine dollars and fifty cents are written in the first vertical row, and this amount is correspondingly deducted in the column of debts in the second vertical row.income.Tom is looking at Rebecca's income records.

This thing disgusted him again.He was about to toss the book into the box to join the fire beside the tracks, along with the whore litter, when a date caught his attention: December 24, 1919.The page draws a long line and both columns are blank. December 24 was Christmas Eve, the day Tom asked her to sell him whiskey. He deeply offended her that day, but that long line told a story.She didn't earn a penny that night, and there was only one person in her big brass bed. Tom flipped quickly to other dates he remembered sharing wine with her.Every day is the same result.A long line, no income at all.Tom let out a sigh.So he wasn't alone in feeling for her.She has feelings for him too.

Tom looked up, startled by a sudden emptiness. He was standing where she had kissed him once when he broke into her room and asked her to leave with him.He remembered the suddenness of that kiss and the intense pleasure it had given him.He came back today to ask her to leave with him again.Like a husband and wife.This time, he would have given her time, he would have done the right thing and not rush to catch the train. He would have done a lot had he caught up with her in time. would have. would have. The most useless words in the English language. Summer of 1921. The Persian sun baked the sky into a white, and the ground that was about to burn was dry and cracked into pieces.Most of the people in the camp had left, and the remaining dozen or so were exhausted like dogs, working every day from the first ray of light until long after the last gleam of flame had faded over the horizon.

Since Allen decided not to move the rig, progress had been hopelessly slow.It was far too late to change their minds now—money was slipping from their hands every moment—but their disappointment was as bitter as the windblown sand that got into their clothes, food, and bedding. Emory II has drilled 2,700 feet.Ahmad had predicted that the damned bad boiler didn't want to go down any further, and as he expected, breakdowns and blockages were happening almost every day.Many days they go nowhere.On other days they dug five feet, sometimes ten feet, and once seventeen feet.Allen and Reynolds were no longer meticulously collecting samples.If they get oil, they get oil.If you didn't dig it, you didn't dig it.The thing is already inshallah--it's up to Allah--whether oil is dug out or not, rock specimens are not going to help much.

Shortages of money make frugality all the more important.They only light their kerosene lamps when they are doing things directly related to work.Food is strictly limited to rice, flatbread and vegetables, and once a week everyone shares two chickens.Fuel prices in Shiraz have risen because of bandit infestation in the mountains, and the camps are in desperate need of fuel. No one uttered the word, but they all knew: failure was approaching day by day. ＊＊ Allen changed his posture and frowned.His hands were blistered from boiler burns, and his legs and back seemed to be melted into a kind of permanent pain these days.He raised the curtain of the tent, hoping to let the cold air flow into the hot tent, but it was just a naive hope.He went back to his arithmetic.Whatever his calculations, the answer was that they would have to give up drilling in twenty-six days.

Reynolds' heavy footsteps sounded on the path leading to Allen's tent.These days Reynolds walks with his head held high, but when he's alone he always has a scowling look on his face. "Good evening, brother, did I bother you?" Allen reached for the pack, handed Reynolds one, and lit one for himself.He took a deep breath and waved the papers, "It's counting money." Tobacco wasn't doing his war-damaged lungs any favors, but he still let himself enjoy the pleasure. "Have you figured out the correct answer?" What Reynolds meant was: Did you find the other two hundred days?This is a joke between them.Allen shook his head. "Twenty-six days, unless the fuel price drops tomorrow."

"Twenty-six days . . . that's one hundred and twenty feet, if you're lucky." Allen nodded, "If you're lucky." They were silent for a moment.For Allen, no oil means no Lottie.For Reynolds, that meant his career finale would come to a screeching halt due to a lack of funds.He would return home, wifeless and childless, to a poor man's London.They have twenty-six days to change their future. "How much do you want to go home, George?" Alan asked at last. "Want to go home? God, I'd give—why? Why do you ask? What do you mean?" "I suppose if we showed up in Abadan penniless, they'd be less likely to starve us to death."

"Not likely, no, of course not. My God, man, you didn't save our return money, did you?" "Only a little, only a little." "To hell with it, old man. We could shovel coal on a steamer out of India if we had to. No, no, no, no, no, I don't want to go home that much." Allen laughed, "That's thirty days. One hundred and fifty feet." "One hundred and fifty feet. Oil at one hundred and forty-nine feet, how about it, old man?" "Inshallah, George, inshallah." Oil changes everything.Oil changes everything, everywhere, always.It changed everything on Signal Hill.

There are now forty-two oil wells there, and more are popping up every day.The once drowsy mountain is now noisy.The normal way of life crumbles.Who needs a dime shop when you can own an oil well?Who grows cucumbers when you can rent out a field for three times the price?Even the air lost the clarity it had been washed by the sea.Boilers belched steam, trucks raised dust; gas nozzles added smoke, soot, and sparks to them. To some, Signal Mountain was hell; to Tom, it was next to heaven. Or almost: Signal Hill might have oil, but it doesn't have Rebecca.Sometimes even Tom wasn't sure which he wanted more. ＊＊ When they got to 2,000 feet, a piece of drill pipe deformed.It's stuck in the hole, eighteen inches wide and about a third of a mile deep.They couldn't make any progress until the drill pipe was removed.They pulled up the bit and lowered a fishing tool to retrieve the drill pipe.They hooked it, hoisted it, dropped it, hooked it again, caught it, and hoisted it up.They put the drill back in, but they've lost time.A team that started eight days behind them had dug oil ahead of them.Nine hundred barrels a day, and there's nothing wrong with the pressure. The excitement was mounting, and Tom was infected by the tension.Anxiety and hope were like two mice gnawing at his heart day and night.When the clothes get dirty, he just throws them away.He forgot to shave.He never leaves the well. Those guys worked like no other drill team Tom had ever seen before.All of them were too superstitious to openly hope, but the hope tormented them unspeakably.Before dawn appeared on the eastern horizon, the crew was at camp, down the rig, fueling the boilers and putting pallets in place.Long after night had fallen in the west, none of them were finished, but were busy getting the drillpipe back into the rig and clearing the platform for the next day. But though they act like devils, they talk like cowards. "Even if we hit oil, we'll lose pressure by the time so many other wells are pumping. Most of them have never seen a properly drilled field." "Yeah, but it's probably not on an oil field at all. You don't know. Can't tell. I've dug wells all over West Texas, and every single one was a dry well, but each one was within a hundred or two hundred yards of a producing well. " "That's why you're called No Oil Well." "Damn, I'm not sure about our casing. Our well casing is produced in the east, and I think it may not be suitable for this sandy type of rock." Their various conversations do not break the taboo of superstition.For example, "No Oil Well" might spit tobacco juice into the ground and say thoughtfully, "Suppose we dug up the oil - of course, just if - what kind of controls do you think we need? I'm wondering, What's the pressure and flow going to be. What do you guys think? Two thousand pounds per square inch, or what? I'd guess around a hundred barrels a day? Maybe a little less?" "Probably more. Alamitos One is still producing close to twelve hundred barrels a day, and the pressure still shows no signs of abating." "That's not much. Polsa Zhiga One in Gospel Swamp was twenty thousand barrels a day. I worked with a guy who drilled a well there. He said he nearly blew his hair out. " "20,000 barrels a day, eighty cents a barrel, about 20 cents out of production overhead, it's...hell, that's amazing... Of course, we can't do that. I, I just need to dig the oil. very happy." "Damn right." "Hell, if it's getting forty barrels a day, that's an oil well, right?" "Hell, yes, that's an oil well, too." Everyone agreed that forty barrels was still a good result, despite the fact that it would have killed them in disappointment.Tom wasn't too cool either.This is his oil well.He bet all the glory and disgrace of his life on this success.Great success will make up for all past misfortunes.Failure would have knocked Tom out of even hope of recovery. But it doesn't matter.As long as the rotating drill pipe continues to go deeper into the ground.As long as the drill keeps going down.As long as the oil is there. As long as the oil is there. This is their thirtieth day. Their money is all gone, and so are their hopes.The well was nearly three thousand feet in—probably the deepest in Persia so far—and it was still drier than dust. They can only face a simple fact.They have tried their best, but failed. As if to symbolize their failure, their last two goats suddenly fell dead at night, lying soft and peaceful in a small hole next to the drilling rig.Allen was so frustrated that he almost buried them. ＊＊ He paid off his meager pay for the last week.The small contingent that remained has become a surprisingly efficient, cohesive force.No one takes money very seriously at this point, not even the two impassive Russians have tears in their eyes as they hug Allen, Reynolds and everyone else.Ahmad's spout of curses turned into Persian swear words, and the profanity mixed in would have been enough to get him sentenced to death in some less tolerant countries.The camp was all dismantled and loaded onto the last truck.Drill towers, boilers, drill pipes and drill bits are all left on this wasteland as mementos of what has been seen. The seven remaining horses were all saddled and mounted.Others climbed up and down the hill on already overloaded trucks.Everything that can be sold is sold in Shiraz, and the proceeds are used to pay off various debts. Alan - shaved and washed, though dressed in such shabby clothes that even a beggar in England would look down on him - walked alone to the rig.He put his hand on the slack cable, and the giant Mother Hubbard lay half a mile below ground in the darkness.No oil meant no Lottie—whether it was the beloved Lottie during the war or the cheerful, flirtatious, superficial girl he met on a rainy London street.Either way, without Lottie is like not having life. Allen walked to the rig again, touching its wood.Touching wood: This is a superstitious action familiar to all soldiers, and there have been countless times when heavy artillery fire or sudden gunfire has caused Allen to reach for a parapet or mud-covered mudguard.He broke off a small piece of wood and walked slowly to the little pit where the two goats lay. Their already glazed eyes looked upward.Flies crawled on exposed eyeballs.Allen sniffed, but the air in the mountains was pure and fresh.He stretched out a finger to close their eyelids.Their eyelids, much harder than human eyelids, resisted under his fingers.Allen exerted more strength and finally closed their eyes.The flies buzzed away angrily.It's time to leave. He walked back into the group, started the truck's engine, and drove down the hill. This is the end of an era. ＊＊ The horses moved faster than the trucks and soon disappeared into the winding valley.Allen carefully steered the steering wheel.In some places, the inclines are steep, and a shortage of manpower means the trucks have a lot of work to do.Even the sharp turns are potholed.Every leg of the journey is a battle of skill and a terrifying game of chance.Allen seemed to be very focused, but twice he misjudged the uplift of the ground, and both times the truck staggered towards the edge of the cliff.Reynolds wanted to say something, but Allen's hands on the steering wheel turned white, and his face seemed to be wearing a mask.A few more minutes passed.Allen took another bad turn and Reynolds spoke. "Are you all right, buddy? Maybe let me drive for a while?" "I'm very good." As he spoke, Allen said, he let the truck slide into a mudflow that hadn't been cleared.Slowly but unstoppably they slid toward the edge of the hill.The truck slid to a stop, its front wheels spinning slowly on the spot.Two feet further, and they tumble down a forty-five-degree, thousand-foot-long slope of stones the size of a house.The six people in the cab felt their hearts stop beating as they waited to see if the truck would continue to slide.The car didn't slide.Allen turned off the engine and let the car stall.All the while, his attention was elsewhere, and he didn't even seem to notice the danger. "Damn it, it's fate," said Reynolds, "we're all going out, of course, out the back, and roping the car up and unloading it quickly, and—" "The goats," said Alan, "have you ever thought about those two goats?" "The goat, boy? Leave it alone—" "No, George, think about it. Goats, why do they die?" Reynolds smiled slightly.He was very worried that this failure was more than Alan could bear. "They're just dead. Men die, goats die. This sort of thing—" "Nothing is dead," snapped Alan. "You've got to die of something. What did those two goats die of?" Reynolds looked at Allen and realized, "Oh, man! Oh, man!" He gave Allen a wild look for a moment.What once sucked Alan's attention now infected them both. "Get out," Reynolds said, "right away." Everyone climbed out of the trembling truck from behind.Reynolds dug headlong into their gear, pulling out rope and planks.Allen and Reynolds delivered orders as quickly as two parts of the same machine, and planks and rocks were used to jam the wheels and hoist the behemoth back to safety.But that's pretty much the easiest part of the whole operation.The next step is to turn the truck around and point it up the hill.The mountain road is too narrow and the road conditions are scary.Even so, they managed to do so.Still driven by Allen, they frantically drove back up the slope.This time, there was no quiet, terrified gasp at each dash into the hollow.Everyone in the car was eager to know what made the two Brits rush back so desperately. ＊＊ A light wind was blowing across the valley as they hurried back, and a small fire was dying in the boiler. "Fuel," said Allen, "get fuel." "Hurry up, guys, hurry up." Bewildered men began to gather sticks or coals around the camp, but Allen and Reynolds were far ahead of them.The two rushed into the truck.They peeled off its canvas cover.They stuck a pipe into the tank to siphon the gasoline out.After other people saw this scene, they all joined the camp.Tents and quilts were thrown into the fuel pile, as well as simple toilets and tool cabinets, and even folding tables and chairs that had brought them their only comfort for a long time.After the pile of fuel seemed to be enough, they ran to the rig to get ready. Allen started adding fuel like a dervish.The small fire crackled and began to grow.Allen threw gasoline, the flames sprang up, and the water in the boiler began to heat up.Mama Hubbard is ready. "Go on, you useless, goddamn son of a bitch," Ahmed murmured a powerful prayer.The boiler began to hiss. "Don't let us down, you bastard. Don't let us down just now." Only Allen remained silent.The pressure is up.They get the cam gears and conveyor belts going.Now there are three thousand feet or so of steel cables in the hole, and the giant Big Mom Hubbard.Every rotation is a test for the precarious machinery. But it worked.The winch spins.Deep in the ground, Mother Hubbard rose slowly for the final blow.The cam gear lifts her, lifts her, lifts her. "Go on," Reynolds said, "go on." The cam gear completes one revolution.Mother Hubbard fell, her enormous weight hitting the hidden rocks. "Come again." The seven of them worked hard.The drill goes up and down.Rising, falling. "Fishing the sand," Reynolds yelled. They winched Mrs. Hubbard up and put down the scoop. "hurry up!" Their fuel piles, which had seemed huge just a quarter of an hour ago, were rapidly disappearing. They scooped up the sand quickly and roughly, but they had to pick up all the most intrusive debris before they could hammer again.After the gravel came up, Allen grabbed it, wiped it on his legs, and put them in a basin of water.To him, the well wasn't just for oil, it was for Tom, it was for Lottie—past and future.He and Reynolds were hunched over the basin as if they were looking at the Oracle of Delphi.Air bubbles cling to the edges of the stones and rise to the surface. "hurry up." Reynolds reached into the basin with his gnarled hands to dislodge any air bubbles from the stone.Bubbles rise to the surface, explode with a bang, and disappear.Then a strange thing happened. The gravel, which has absolutely no air bubbles, begins to grow new air bubbles.Pinholes appear in the stone, then turn into needles, and finally turn into bright round bubbles.Allen pushed the basin, and the small bubbles floated up with flickering.Both jumped to their feet, wild hope shining in their eyes. "continue!" "Add fire, please!" They carefully lowered Ma Hubbard a hundred and fifty feet from the bottom of the well and let her go.There was a roaring crash from far below, and the rocky face was knocked away again.The drill drilled, but the boiler began to retreat.The fuel burns well, but for too short a time.Once again their luck ran out. "Tires," Allen said, "who the hell keeps tires?" They ran to the truck and unloaded its tires, seats, sump, hydraulic lines, everything that ignited.The truck looked like a skeleton licked clean by a cougar.The boiler pressure rose again.Mother Hubbard rises, falls. They worked until it was time to scoop up the sand again, but the boiler flames started to die down again.Winch tried to lift Mrs Hubbard one last time, but could do nothing.Oil wells are throwing them to failure again. "The rig," Allen said, "take it down." The wooden rigs are solidly erected from sun-dried lumber, all imported from the forested highlands near the Caspian Sea.Unlike the older equipment, the drilling rig has always stood there solidly and securely.But not anymore.They siphon off its wood.They left the necessary structures, but took almost everything else.Alan and Ahmoded climbed up the rig until, in Reynolds' view—looking at them from the ground was like seeing two tiny bugs—one black, one buff.The two hammered the crossbars with hammers until the nails were broken and the logs fell to the ground.Every piece, every beam and every bracket they took down was thrown straight into the boiler. The flames devoured the mournful wood.Allen climbed down from the rig and brought more water from the river to pour into the boiler.He'd been working harder than everyone in the room for so long, but the fatigue seemed to belong to another life.The boiler fire surrounded the water and the pressure rose. "Okay, let's start." Allen starts the winch.It had to lift Ma Hubbard and all the wires three thousand feet.They don't know if the rig can withstand the pull.Everyone took a step back as the reel turned.The structure of the rig begins to tilt under tension.No one had ever seen the rig lean before, not even an inch, and now the main frame is clearly six to eight inches lean. "Go on," Reynolds said. "Go on," Allen said. "Go on, you bastard, go on," Ahmode said. A thousand feet of steel cable rolled up.two thousand feet.It looks like the rig has withstood the pull.Then the winch started moaning, as if about to give up.The rig seemed strong, but the winch groaned and wailed.They had no choice but to watch helplessly.The steel cable coiled more and more slowly.The boiler was giving off enormous pressure, but something in this patchwork of machinery was giving up.In fact, they could even hear its dying agony. Two thousand eight hundred feet.Twenty nine hundred feet.There were technically only a few feet of the cable left, and the top of Mrs. Hubbard had barely come out of the mouth of the well, when suddenly it happened.The cable broke.The flying rope bounced through the air, and the whipping was fatal, luckily it didn't hit anyone.The well clicked momentarily, then the winch mechanism buckled and fell.It smashed through a crucial remnant of timber, and the rig itself came crashing down, suddenly useless.And at the same time when all this was happening, Aunt Hubbard, carrying her full one and a half tons of weight, "whoosh" fell down the oil well, preparing to hit the stubborn rock for the last time. In the sudden silent shock, they heard a loud bang.It punched through the bottom of the well and down a half mile in the rock. Then there was nothing but silence and the dying hiss of boiler steam. Silence filled the valley. Then came a voice they had never heard before.A low rumbling sound from the center of the earth.This rumble was followed by other rumbles, which gradually converged into a continuous thunder. "The boiler," cried Allen, "put out the fire." They moved water like crazy.They poured copious amounts of water over the boiler until the fire fizzed out and became cold and dead. Then it came out. oil. Gush out of the ground by fountains that shoot seventy feet into the air.Thick, black, wet, smelly, sulfurous petroleum.All seven people were sprayed with it.Their hair, clothes and eyes are thick with oil.The oil that had eluded them for so long was spewing thick streams outward through the dust.It filled the pit where the two goats had been poisoned by deadly gas from the well. The seven drillers danced like madmen in the jet-black fountain.They poured the magic substance on each other.They wallow in it.They catch it with both hands and sprinkle it into the sky. It was August 23, 1921, Allen's twenty-eighth birthday. Some wells will blow the hair out of you, others just seep from the ground.While everyone loves seeing gushers, this scene misses the point.To dig out oil is to dig out oil, the important thing is how many barrels and how much money. ＊＊ They soon dug to just shy of three thousand feet. Then it's time to proceed with caution.Instead of continuing to drill down, they lined up metal casings in the well.They put cement on the top of the wellhead to prevent the inflow of groundwater.In the final stage they swapped out the nine-inch drill for a smaller six-inch drill. By this stage, Tom had No Oil Well personally overseeing every detail of the operation.They lower the drill at half the normal speed.They whispered prayers, touched the wood, crossed their fingers, and prayed silently for each new length of drill pipe. Just higher up the hill, there are now six wells over three thousand feet.Oil was dug from each well.Flow rate is good.Oil fields remain under pressure. Boiler Bob came to work one morning with a cross around his neck.No one laughed at him.Two even touched the crucifix for good luck. ＊＊ It came just before dawn on August 23rd--Tom's twenty-eighth birthday. The breeze on the construction site has subsided, and the sea breeze has not yet blown, but they all feel bitingly cold, and the steel pipes are also icy to the touch. No Oil Well wanted to get to work right away, but Tom kept his wits about him.The drill bit lying at the bottom of the well is old and dull, and it's time to lift it up and replace it with a new, sharper bit.He gave the order. "No Oil Well" agreed.They immediately started the lifting device and placed the raised drill pipes.Three thousand feet is one hundred thirty-foot drill pipes, or more than thirty knots of ninety-foot drill pipe they put in the rig.They counted to zero, the rig was filled with drill pipe, and the Pacific Ocean began to glow with gold. They picked up the last ninety feet of drillpipe.The first thirty feet came out clean, but the last sixty feet were covered with an oily black liquid. Tom looked at it in disbelief.He was still cold and his mind was running slowly.His first thought was what was wrong with them.The drill pipe should not be black, it should be covered in the mud they used to lubricate the drill pipe.Then he saw the expressions of the whole team.Like him, they failed to understand.But the evidence is so overwhelming.Right at the bottom of their well, there's sixty feet of oil. One by one, their expressions turned to confirmation, like something divine had just happened before their eyes. They succeeded. The wells are pumping.They just have to go a little deeper, and the pressure in the subsurface is enough to push the oil to the surface.A solemn silence lasted a second or two - and then it was broken. "Oil! We've got oil! We—" "God, we got it! I just knew—" Two people started screaming, but No Oil Well was very angry. "We haven't dug anything worth screaming about yet," he yelled. "As long as the well isn't coming out, it hasn't been successful. I've seen some oil wells with oil at the bottom, but nothing coming up but wolf shit .I saw some oil wells—” He ordered the procession to restore order, and they all obeyed.Tom was left alone. Although he heard the "no oil well" yell, Tom knew he had an oil well. oil.He has oil.Five years after being captured by the German army, and two years after he set foot in the United States as a poor cattle mover, he really found the oil he had dreamed of for a long time.The whole world changed, and when he was intoxicated by this moment, everything in the past was erased.The whole earth became brighter, softer, and more colorful. Tom loved California, he loved America, and he liked all creatures. After all this time, he finally felt alive. No one ever forgets the day they hit the oil, and for Allen, there were two things in particular that made that moment seem eternal. The first is Tom. He and Tom had always dreamed of this moment—"King of the World," in Knox Darcy's words.After Tom's death, Alan knew his destiny was in Persia.Promises made have become promises kept.Allen felt satisfied, but at the same time felt a little empty.A man cannot live forever in the past he created with someone who has passed away, and Alan has to think about his future. And the future is uncertain.He was sure to be very rich, possibly extremely rich.His poverty prevented him from marrying Lottie, and now that he was rich . . . what? Maybe she has forgotten him, or has fallen in love with someone else.It's even possible, worst but most likely, that she's not just in love with someone else, she's engaged or even married.Maybe he'll just find her back in England happy, healthy, happy to see him - already surrounded by a husband, a family, even her first child... Allen really didn't know how to face the endless possibilities.Should he be happy to be back with England and Lottie?Or should he be afraid?In fact, it's both.He slept for more than two hours that night (three-quarters awake frozen as everything soft and warm and cozy was thrown into that final fire), happy and nervous and eager And fear, lovesickness and heartbreak. Tom's men deepened the well with extreme care, but their superstition had vanished without a trace. "See that sign over that barber shop up the hill?" said Boiler Bob. "See? That guy dug a blower well in the backyard. A sign that said 'Cadillac dealers, please come and see me at my house.' I'd be like that too, right? 'Cadillac dealers, come visit me at my house!'" "There's a whole fleet of damned Cadillacs!" "If we do a good job here, I'll dig my own wildcat well. A little further up the coast. I have a friend who's a trend scientist, and he's mapped out all the wells that come out. Drilling with him is nothing like drilling a wildcat well. I'm not saying we can't dig something here, though." They slowly drilled deeper and deeper.They put down a sleeve with a small hole in it, which protects the bottom of the well from subsidence, but at the same time allows the wonderful, God-sent oil to flow into the well.Then, with impossibly precise precision, they drilled a little deeper. A physical change occurs in the tube.A faint trickle was clearly visible. "We've got oil!" cried "No Oil Well."It's not just an oil well, it's an oil well that he also has a share of. And then it came out: oil pouring out of the ground, flooding their shoes, a black tide over the sleeping little thing.The world seems to be getting better and better.有人拿出一大瓶走私酒，他们一边大口开心地喝着威士忌，一边忙着将井口摆放到位。汤姆得让到一边不妨碍他们，但更确切地说，他想要独自一人享受这个时刻。 “嘿，丫头，嘿，小东西。” 他抱走离心爱的油井只有几英尺远的全身湿透的小狗。他抚摸着她粉红色的耳朵时，她用长长的咸咸的舌头舔着他。 “也许这一切都是值得的，呃，丫头？就算是苦涩的故事也能有快乐的结局。” 如果舔表示同意的话，那小东西就是同意了。他抚摸着她。出于某种原因，在那一刻，惠特科姆庄园猛地闯进他的脑海。他对亚当爵士、帕梅拉和艾伦的印象清晰得就像昨天刚刚见过他们一样。就一秒钟左右，他们的记忆只带了温暖，甚至是爱——但那一刻过去了。他开始思索他的下一步。他有二十七亩地。他可以架起至少两打钻塔，甚至可能更多。在山上的更高处，有些钻塔的支架在地面上相互交错，但汤姆甚至都用不着让它们挤得太近。他拥有二十七亩全美国最有价值的土地。 钻探队员们将井口摆放到位，把巨大的螺丝嵌入水泥，然后将它固定住。井口装得很快。他们打开阀门。流出地面的石油源泉被止住了。接下来要做的事就是将油井连到管道上，然后就开始数钱吧。“无油井”任由队员们开始庆祝，但汤姆正静静地独处着。 他沿着钻塔外面的铁梯往上爬了九十英尺。他尽可能地悬在外面，让充满石油芬芳的空气穿过他的头发。 他很快乐。也许这是自1916年被俘以来他第一次感到真正的快乐。过去的阴影、背叛、艰辛和危险——所有一切都被这一巨大成功给抹去了。 他低下头俯瞰着他的土地。小东西也被主流气氛感染了，在油田上飞快地奔来奔去。汤姆微笑起来。他已经知道继这口井之后其它的井要设在什么地方。他知道在哪儿架设管道、怎样出售石油、怎样筹集新的资金。 然后他就看到了它。他的命运。他的劫数。一个面色苍白、穿着西服和薄底皮鞋的男子跑着穿过尘土弥漫的土地，避开钻杆、泥浆、抽油杆和抽油管。他看上去算不了什么。他看上去就像一件极不协调的廉价西服。可重要的不是他看上去怎样，而是他在说什么。而他所说的话是汤姆一生都不会忘记的话。 “你们这些家伙到底在我的土地上干什么呢？” 当石油决定喷涌而出的时候，它就喷涌而出。当那些试着让它发生的人们再试着阻止它时——嗯，有时真不知道哪一样更难做到。 整整十九天，石油无法阻挡地向外喷涌着。 一开始，艾伦和其他人试着盖上井口，用岩石、测链或是从已经散架的钻探设备上剥下来的东西把它堵住。他们试过了，但他们的努力全都徒劳无功。石油从地下喷出的速度太快，除了山崩之外没有东西能够盖住这口井。 然后，他们很快就将精力转到下一个任务上：建一个大到足够存放石油的储蓄池。这十多个筋疲力尽的人几乎没有取得进展，虽然他们干了一个通宵，一直忙到第二天。好在一些已经离开的工人害怕发生了什么糟糕的事，就回来寻找卡车的踪迹，结果却看到了一口油井。只有到了这时他们的工作量才有所减轻。山谷里以惊人的速度聚满了盖什凯部落的男子：有些是去年跟他们一起工作过的人，另一些则是穆罕默德·埃默里聚集起来的。他听说了这个消息，便骑马进来视察“他的”油井。在这个时候，没有人是为了酬劳而干活。他们干活是因为山谷里满是石油，而且人人都知道难以置信的财富正为那些能够抓住机会的人准备着。 他们干了将近三个星期。他们用卡车的仪器板甚至是自己的双手做铲子，将河流改向，然后开始建造一个巨大的横穿山谷的大坝。在这期间他们几乎都不睡觉。他们就像驴子一样拼命干活。他们只吃煮米饭，米饭是在山谷上面五公里的大锅炉里做的，拿下来的时候已经冷得就像石头，之所以这么做是因为害怕火星会将整个山谷炸到半空。 然后一切都完工了。石油洪流碰上了大坝，然后开始填充积蓄池。有几个小的漏洞，但修理起来都很容易。 同时，商店开始从设拉子源源不绝地送货进来，一切都是赊帐，没有什么是这个突然暴富的欧洲人找不到的。最后，满身油污的工人们甚至设法盖上了井口。他们把一辆卡车开上山谷，在里面放上岩石和水泥，用手把它拖到井边，然后把它翻过来。石油仍在往外冒，但喷泉已经没有最初那么大的力度了。又过了三天之后，再加上三百袋水泥，井口被封住了。 在这个又黑又臭的湖边，两个满身黑油的苦行僧拥抱在一起。一个矮小结实。他的胡须才养了十九天，但他的胡子年纪要大得多，保养得也更好。他的脸黑得就像夜晚的煤球，但在黑色之下还泛着红光。另一个又高又直还很疲倦。他那曾经是白色的头发已经变得跟其它东西一样黑。他那淡色的双眼跟脸上其它地方的一片污黑很不协调。两人身上都散发出石油硫磺那种臭鸡蛋味，但两人既没注意也没在乎。 “我会想你的，老弟。” “对，我也会想你的。天知道，我甚至会怀念这儿的日子。”艾伦环顾了一下嶙峋的山谷——他呆了这么久的地方，“冰冷的米饭和石油调味汁。” “对……嗯，英国会有一份工作等着你，那会比在这儿挖石油还要艰苦得多，我敢肯定。” "right." 艾伦即将返回英国。他在那儿的工作将是把他的石油湖变成一个公司。他需要钱、投资者、股份、董事、帐户和经理。这是重要的工作，但同样也很艰难，而且两人都知道艾伦更愿意留在这儿，像雷诺兹那样，在现场管理工作。 “家乡有没有什么人要我代你去拜访？有很多话在信里都是说不清的。” “对，我爸和我妈，如果你不介意的话。他们是一对紧张兮兮的傻瓜，所以——” “所以我会详细地告诉他们我们在这儿的生活是多么舒适——” “舒服的住房，宜人的天气。” “轻松的钻井，各式各样的娱乐措施——” “当地官员的大力协助和悉心照顾。” 两人都放声大笑。 “你也可以替我去拜访一下查尔斯·格里纳韦先生，”雷诺兹说，“你可以告诉他这儿有个油田，大得不可思议，就在我曾经跟他说过的地点。你可以提醒他，我曾经说过用七万英镑买下这儿的钻探权简直是低得可耻。” “我会告诉他的。” “还有这个。”雷诺兹拿出一张纸。上面写着伦敦某个人的姓名和地址，还有一句话，“圣歌第104首第15节。雷诺兹”。 艾伦满腹疑问地看着他。 “如果你不介意帮我发这份电报的话……我想阿巴丹应该有电报机。” 艾伦点点头，“圣歌第104首？我不太记得是什么内容了。” “嗯，用不着偷瞥你的圣经了，老弟。如果我想让你知道里面说的是什么，我就会唱给你听了。” 两人又一次拥抱在一起。一英里远处，两匹长腿阿拉伯马不耐烦地踢着腿，他们的马蹄上包着布，以免铁掌擦起火花。艾伦将会骑马快速赶到设拉子，然后再赶往阿巴丹，在那儿他要么跳上一艘过路的油轮，通过苏伊士运河直接回家，要么，如果不能在短时间内搭上油轮的话，他会选择经过伊斯坦布尔这段更费劲的旅途。 It's time to leave. 艾伦觉得最容易的部分已经被抛在身后。他带着不详的预感面对着未来。 在战争时期，汤姆曾经伸手去够某个人，或者是一个躺在无人地带的士兵，或者是一个靠在战壕胸墙上的人。他伸出手，希望那是一个活人，然后尸体翻了过来，头上没有脸，肌肤如死般的冰冷。 这一刻就像那种时候。这是一种惊骇，一种触摸到尸体的感觉。 ＊＊ 那人穿过尘土跑过来。有一次他的薄底鞋在泥上滑了一下，使他一屁股坐到地上，但他坚持跑了过来。这是一个秃头、带着眼镜、不协调而又怒火冲天的男子。 汤姆慢慢爬下梯子。原本绕着田野乱跑的小东西向那人扑了过去，猛地抓住他的脚踝，边咬边发出低吼声。钻探队的成员们停下庆祝，陷入沉默，来回看着那个正跳过一个钻杆沟的人和仍站在梯子上四五十英尺高处的汤姆。 汤姆慢慢地爬下来。 那人跑到钻塔下面。 “你们……？你们到底……？天啊，伙计们，谁容许你们在这儿钻探的？” 那人喘得上气不接下气，看上去就像心脏病马上就要发作一样。他坐到一节抽油管上，试着平静下来。锡格纳尔山上现在有一百多个钻塔，而空气也回应着它们的噪音、烟雾和臭味。这个人显然很不适应。他就像是要等到噪音停下来以后再说到重点。 “这是我的土地，”汤姆说，“我是说，钻探权是我的。我跟赫尔希大妈签的合同。如果你不相信，可以看一眼合同。” “赫尔希，那个老巫婆！她已经不再是这片地的主人了。这地不是她的，甚至连她住的那个老鼠洞都不是她的。” “我看过地契，是有效的。” “有效，对，可是什么时候有效？这片地已经有十五年不属于赫尔希了。她丈夫以前在这儿放过牛，或者说试着放过牛，但他把这片地抵押出去，用换来的钱买酒，最后的结果就是这片地全都用来换酒了。现在是两个日本人在耕种。” “那你又是谁？”汤姆的声音变得很挑衅——其实没有必要，因为挑衅一点用处也没有。他用满是油污的手抓着满是油污的头发，懒得去收拾自己的仪容。他审视了一下自己的语气，然后温和一点地问，“我是说，你代表谁？” “对不起——乖，乖——”小东西开始愤怒地咬着那人的鞋带，他试着把她摇下来而又不伤害她。那人的心跳已经降到了每分钟几百下，他用一个白色的大手绢擦着脸，同时伸直腿，审视着周围。“对不起，我叫沃尔特·P·法里斯，从贝克斯菲尔德赶过来的，贝克斯菲尔德储蓄银行……该死的，这儿总是这么又吵又热吗？简直没法听清自己说话，更别说思考自己了。不不，我是说没法自己思考……哦，见鬼，你知道我的意思。”他长长地嘘出一口气，慢慢恢复呼吸。 汤姆的脸上燃起希望，“当然了，我可以看出你不是石油商，法里斯先生。假如你能够证明这是你的土地，我会很乐于跟你改签合同。把所有份额支票都从赫尔希那儿改到你那儿。” “天啊，不，我不是石油商，我也不想变成石油商。对我来说，你们能受得了这个，这真是奇迹。” “我已经全都想好了，哪儿打井，哪儿架设管道，怎么把它又便宜又方便地送进精炼厂。干这一行有很多隐患，不仅仅是找到石油就行。” “这块地还没被抽干真是奇迹。” “还没全干，法里斯先生。我们今天刚刚挖出石油，而且我们赶在了周围大多数油井的前面。既然我们已经找到石油，我们就可以筹集一些真正的资金去开挖新的油井。像这么混乱的地方，就得飞快地钻井，疯狂地抽油。” “资金……那就是我这方面的事了，我想。” “没错，法里斯先生。石油商和银行家，完美的搭档，我想。” “我也这么想。那正是我在考虑的事情。” 法里斯脱下鞋子，把里面的沙子和石子倒到地上。他的袜子因为汗水而沾在脚上。他按摩了一下双脚，动了动脚趾头，然后又叹息一声把鞋穿上。突然一阵大风带着山下天然气火焰的赤热吹过来，并洒下一阵煤烟。他眨眨眼。 “如果你愿意，”汤姆说，“我们可以马上去个安静的地方。整理好文件，请个律师过目，我还需要去政府大楼核查一下你的地契。一切都弄好之后，我们可以在一两天之内把合同转到你名下。” 法里斯的目光锁定在前方，茫然无物地看着。现在，终于，他听到汤姆在跟他说话。他掉回视线，眨着眼睛将目光定在汤姆身上。 “不，不，不，对不起。不，天啊，我哥哥会打死我的，如果我那么做的话。他是个石油商，明白吗？在这一行干了三十五年了，你相信吗？他会到这儿来钻井，就在这儿。已经全都想好了，他说。”