Chapter 16 Part V Sections 67-71

Harrelson's description of the cattlemen was no joke.Tall frame, sleepy face.They drilled the well steadily and hard, and never deviated from it step by step.As they eat, they talk about cattle, crops, produce prices, embankments, and recycling. Tom fished up the broken bit first.The bit was almost broken in half, the edges of the split were smooth and sharp.Its blade is blunt enough for a baby to lie on and sleep on.Tom looked at the bit and wondered how the cattlemen managed to get such a bad bit into such a risky well. He set up the core drill and lowered the battered pole into the ground.Half a mile deep, thirty feet a knot, thirty feet a knot.The lifting block of the drilling rig was almost exhausted, and there were many times in the process that heavy components could only be pulled up by hand.The cattle drillers were pulling thirty feet of pipe by hand without complaint, as if God had written a rule against the use of machinery.

* * Harrelson had been to the rig three times and invited Tom to dinner.The first two times Tom said no.He didn't want to see Harrelson and Mrs. Holling rubbing their hands under the table.He didn't like to hear that widow imitating high society babbling about the garbage she saw in movie magazines, while outside her house, all of East Texas was under the shadow of the Great Depression, which raged throughout the twenties. It was bad enough, farm prices were as low as they could get, and things have gotten worse since the stock market crashed and the economy was in a downturn.On top of that, Harrelson spends the night trying to talk him back into the mess: engineering, money, work and all, and Tom doesn't want to spend an evening like that.

But the third time Harrelson came, Tom couldn't say no.Harrelson was alone.The oilman part of him—not a crook, not a profiteer, not an old woman seducer—was lonely as an oilman.His oil well failed.He needs reassurance. So Tom agreed. Dinner was very bad.Mrs. Holling had just been crying before Tom arrived.The food was terrible.Their conversation spattered like exhaust burners on a dying oil well.Tom will take out the core the next day.Harrelson promised him fifteen hundred dollars, and Tom would turn around and go home.They will never see each other again. This is the end of the end.

The melody hovers in the air, sentimental and melancholy, very familiar but indescribable.Allen stopped, listened, and finally remembered.He had last heard it on a bone-chilling February night, stepping in the icy mud from the ankle down, gunfire roaring across the sky, and the soft German voice wafting in the breeze. He smiled—or half smiled, half frowned—and started to move.Ord Hartwell, deputy ambassador to Germany, looked sharply at his companion. "Sound familiar?" Allen nodded. "The last time I heard this piece was in February 1916." "It wasn't a comfortable environment, I guess."

"I have to admit it." That's a pretty understatement. The Tiergarten district of West Berlin in April 1930 was nothing compared to that cold February night.The band on stage wore bright red jackets and sat where everyone could see them.No more dodging from invisible enemies.No more waiting to see if you can kill them before they kill you. Hartwell continued to study Alan's expression, "Your first time here?" Allen nodded. "Strange, isn't it? Everyone thinks so. We spent four years teaching our people to hate the knoots, and then when we actually got here, they found them easy to get along with. To be honest with you , I would rather stay here than in Paris.”

They talked of tennis and cricket and the English summer races as they walked through the park; and Hartwell was eager to hear news of Sir Adam, who was an old friend of his with Pamela and Guy. "How about Guy? Still a brave soldier, I suppose?" Allen nodded. He had just met Guy shortly before leaving London for Germany.It was after supper one day when Guy was drunk—even so, the situation left a very unpleasant impression.Guy wants to play poker with Alan for money.Allen declined.Guy was very dissatisfied with this.It looks like he lost a lot of money in the US stock market crash, and he seems to be paying too much attention to it.

"Look, Guy," said Ellen, "if you and Dorothy are in financial trouble, you ought to tell. You know very well that Lottie and I have money to spare." Guy angrily refuses, as if Alan is taking pity on him.When Alan asked how his married life with Dorothy was, Guy replied, "It's not particularly inconvenient, if you think about it." On such a night, I can't help but tremble. He answered Hartwell's question briefly, then changed the subject.Diplomats can take his hints.He said, "Listen, Montagu, you don't come all the way here just to chat. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Allen cleared his throat, "Surely you remember Tom Cleary? That boy—" "My God, yes, I remember little Tommy. I was at Whitcomb Manor, not long after Queen Victoria's funeral, in the spring, year 2001, it should be. Tommy - he shouldn't Over ten years old--what, seven, you say?--he was so fascinated by my pipe that he tricked me into the hall, and when I came back the little rascal had my pipe in his hand. Pipe, is coughing out of breath." Allen smiled.It was a contest between them, and Tom won--or, if he managed to blow the smoke without choking, he won. "Yeah, that's right. I thought, you know he went missing in the war?"

"Yes, of course I do. What a loss! Especially for you, isn't it? Although I know your father and mother are very sad too. If it were you, they would be devastated." "Yeah... look, it's going to sound very stupid, and probably is, but Tom's body was never found, and I'm thinking there's a good chance he wasn't dead, but captured." "I see. Of course, if he doesn't show up after that, it probably says the same thing, poor fellow." "Yes, but I still want to know." "Yes, it's normal." The two paused for a moment.

"I'd say he's like my brother," Allen said after a moment, "but that doesn't really describe our relationship at all. He's not just a brother. We call each other twins because we're the same day Born, but it's more than that. We're..." He shrugged.Even now, after all these years, he still has no words to describe the depth of his connection with Tom. "I don't know, I just know that if I don't find out what happened to him, I will never be able to rest assured." "I see." "Thank you." There was another brief pause, and Hartwell let Allen suppress his emotions before saying, "I suppose you've been to the War Department?"

"Yes, and the Red Cross. I think I've done my best on the British side." "So you want me to see what I can find out here. Of course, I'd love to..." Hartwell paused with a hint of concern. "Will it be difficult?" "Maybe, I don't know. I'll have to look it up. I'll tell the Germans they like the bureaucracy best." "It's just that you look a little nervous." "yes……" They had entered the restaurant and ordered food before continuing their conversation.This is the Kudamm district, where the difficult situation facing the country is much more evident than in the park.Crowds of the unemployed roamed the street corners.Campaign posters hung on walls and trees, many torn or worn.There was a hint of indifference, a hint of hostility in the air.It almost seemed to Alan that Tom was still there, still in Germany, trapped in the dangerous vortex around them. Hartwell talked about the election.The National Socialist Party, like the Communist Party, will win as many seats as possible. "The Communist Party numbers are still clear at least, but the actions of those far-right elements make us antsy in the embassy." "Are they dangerous?" Hartwell sighed, "They're not in power, at least not yet, and their Herr Hitler is a funny little guy, really, like a bad cabaret...but it's not going well. See you here What German -- not a single one -- would think that Germany's eastern frontier was justly ruled at Versailles. You won't find any German who would like to have to pay reparations when nearly five million people in the country are unemployed, ...you don't see a German who thinks that a big country in the heart of Europe should be banned from having an armed force. Actually, I don't think I find it fair either, but I shouldn't say that...so I don't know How much can I find out about Tom Cleary in a POW camp. There's a lot of hate in this country - some concentrated, some hovering in the air. Questions about British prisoners may fall into sympathetic In the ear, maybe not... there, look there." Allen looked over.Two young men in brown shirts with red and black armbands were walking along the sidewalk outside the restaurant window.They talked and smoked.Not far in front of them, a middle-aged woman was frantically arranging the shopping bags in her hands.She was dark-haired, dark-skinned, and probably Jewish.Hartwell's face was very solemn, and his attention had been on the two young men. He was right to be worried. By the time the two men came to the woman, she had almost packed the bags.One of the young men deliberately bumped the woman's arm, knocking the bag off her hand.Another kicked the bags down the drain with his toe.Allen jumped up in a rage, but Harrelson's hand gripped him tightly, stopping him from moving further.The two men pushed the woman to the side of the road and left.Ellen thought, but couldn't confirm, that one of them had also spat at her as she walked away. The cattlemen pulled the wheel like they were going to do it every day for the rest of their lives.Their rhythms also hypnotized Tom.Like them, he lifted the drill rods up the rig at an unhurried pace, stacking them in the rig every ninety feet, counting the rods one by one, as if life consisted only of drill rods. Harrelson wandered around below, alone and unhappy.That's how he was that morning, saying, "Is there a smell in there, guys? Are you smelling something? I'm sure we've just dug up something." But there was no smell, no excitement, not a drop of oil, just the steady upward movement of the drill pipe.There was a suitcase in the back of Harrelson's Ford.Tom guessed that was his last relationship with Mrs. Holling, and that he was going back to his wife and children who had been abandoned in Dallas.When it was time for lunch, Harrelson produced a box wrapped in white linen. "Are you all hungry? Mrs. Holling made me something to eat." He supported the box with his hand, which was heavy. "I think I need some help." Tom and the cattlemen came down from the rig talking and laughing.Harrelson opened the box, and inside was a huge ham and chicken pot pie, eighteen inches in diameter and maybe five or six inches thick. "My God," Harrelson said softly.He cut it with a knife.The crust of this pie is simply too thick.Beneath the uniform brown skin is actually a mass of dough.The flesh inside was raw, and pink blood flowed from the cut.Harrelson finished cutting a piece and placed it on top of the pie as if it had been taken from a funeral. "I don't think this pie will be edible," said one of the sharp-eyed cattlemen. "It'll have to bake a little longer, I say." Harrelson took the pie to the edge of the clearing and dropped it.It fell hard.A column of ants turns around and climbs on top of it or along the cut.Meanwhile, lunch was still lunch, and the drillers unpacked their lunches and shared some with Harrelson.They ate in silence. Tom watched all this with quiet shock. The rig sits idle. At noon, the core could be removed by lifting a little more than a thousand feet of drill pipe, but the rig was sitting idle.Tom couldn't believe it.He'd never seen an idle rig before, and that wouldn't happen in the middle of the day, unless there was something wrong with the machinery.And they're extracting cores -- cores that are very close to putative oil sands.It's unbelievable, really unbelievable. No one spoke. After eating, it's back to drilling pipes.The boiler had lost pressure during this break and it took them twenty minutes to add fuel before seeing the steam come back up.Then the drill pipe is stretched out section by section.Fat flies buzzed in the air.The warmth made Tom drowsy.He counted the drill pipes to see how far they were from the core. Nine hundred and ninety feet.eight hundred.six hundred.three hundred and nine. Harrelson sat on the ground with his back against the Ford.He pretended to be waiting for the core to stick out of the ground, but he was already sound asleep.His head was on one side, his hat hung on the door handle.The noise from the rig drowned out everything else, but from the heaving of Harrelson's chest, Tom guessed he was snoring prodigiously.At least Mrs. Holling could look forward to a quiet night. Two hundred and ten feet.There are only seven sections of drill pipe underground. Even with his head down, drunk and in the dark, Tom could still count thirty feet of pipe.At times it seemed as if he had been drilling wells his whole life.He likes this job.In a year or two, he was pretty sure he would be the head driller at Texaco Plus.He knows he's good enough, it's just a matter of seniority.He'll be getting a raise soon.He'll buy Rebecca something nice, something beautiful. Thirty feet. Tom counted thirty feet without excitement.It's unbelievable.He gave a cattleman a little push. "Go give Teach a kick, okay? It's his damn core, he should be watching." The cattleman lowered the steel ladder with a clang.Tom smiled to himself and shook his head.He's after the dumbest of the cattlemen, the one who sees something wrong with the pie.Harrelson was lucky if he didn't get kicked in the ribs. The last section of drill pipe was raised. To be sure, Harrelson took a kick, though not too hard.He woke up blinking and fumbled for a moment on the ground looking for his hat.He found it on the car door. The core came out. According to the design of the core tube, the flaps should all be closed when the tube is raised, so that the soil sample will not be contaminated by the upper layer of soil.The chips got stuck, and Tom kicked them.His eyes were still half on Harrelson, who was adjusting his hat, putting on his dignity like a suit. Tom looked down at the core.It was coarse gray sand, crushed by the rocks above it so that it could be crushed with a twist of the fingers.This was the sand Tom had seen a hundred times in a hundred rigs in a hundred places. Only this time, the sand was covered in thick, black patches that looked like clotted blood. That's not blood, it's oil. This is an abandoned factory with a high roof and a spacious interior.Standing by the tall windows, you can overlook the sparkling Thames.An old notice taped to the wall explained the building's previous history: "Jones and Palmer Bearing Co." Allen glanced at it—and then fixed it.He tore the old peeling paper off the wall and stuffed it into his pocket.For twenty minutes or so, he wandered around, watching the boats on the river, feeling unhappy about his wife's new job and annoyed at the thought of himself.When Lottie finally finished talking to the designer, he stepped up, waving the paper. "Hello, dear!" she said, kissing him. "Sorry to keep you waiting. My designer is a nice guy, but he's also a horrible idiot. But I don't think it's a problem. Our hospital will be wonderful." "Look," said Allen after the greeting, "Jones and Palmer bearings. The stuff this factory used to make." "Bearings? Steel balls? I can't say I—" "During the war," Allen said, "they used little steel balls to fill certain shells. The idea was that these steel balls would punch through enemy barbed wire. Of course, that fell through, but there were many places where the ground It's pretty strong because of the steel balls." "I'm still not sure I—" "It's like it's back to square one, isn't it? From the shell powder to the shell victims, I think this building would love to be converted into a hospital." Lottie nodded. "I hope so." She was wearing a long brown coat and brown walking shoes that were perfect for walking among the rubble, but her business attire was undercut by her ridiculous little gray fur hat.Her expression suddenly became serious. "You don't mind, do you? I mean all of these?" She pointed to the frames that were about to be transformed. "No, dear. I'm glad to see your enthusiasm." "Oh!" Lottie's voice was full of disappointment, "So you really mind?" "I didn't say that. I said—" "You idiot, I know what you say. Any old fishwife can hear what you say. My job is to understand what you mean." "Well, I do mind, I suppose. But only a little." "Hmm! I suppose that means you really do mind. But I'll talk you out of it." "If anyone can convince me, it must be you." "You said you have new news? It's..." Allen opened his wallet and took out a pink telegram slip.The telegrapher was Odd Hartwell in Berlin.The content of the telegram was: "He has been found! Thomas Cleary entered the Hester POW camp in September 16th. Details will be sent by mail as soon as possible." It took Lottie a second or two to understand the telegram, and then her face lit up with delight.Her smile deepened, the tip of her nose arched slightly, and the little white scar on her eyebrows tightened.Allen knew so well about his wife's face.He didn't want her to be this busy, work-minded woman.He wanted her to simply be his wife and mother to his children.He wanted to take her home now, hugging and kissing each other like they had done in Hampshire during the war, like every day since Ellen proposed to her. Allen shook his head to wake himself up.Lottie was asking him questions, anxious to know what he was going to do next. "I spoke to Hartwell on the phone," Allen said, "and it appears that Tom was indeed captured at the Somme that day. The German prison records indicate that Tom had a leg wound, but apparently he is recovering well, Because he was good enough to plot an escape the following year." "Oh! How like him!" Lottie chuckled, and so did Alan. "Yes, that's Tom. But, you see, here's the odd thing. Tom wasn't in that prison when the Allies took over. There's no record of his death. His name is still on the prison registry, but he Gone. Not there. Gone." "Oh dear! It's just like your dream again." "Isn't it? He just disappeared into the darkness." "So what are you going to do? My God! I guess you don't mean to..." Allen laughed again.The reason he was able to talk to Lottie so calmly now was because he had gone through emotional storms reading the telegrams and talking to Hartwell on the phone.He was amazed—happy—shocked—disappointed—depressed—ecstatic—virtually all the emotions, in fact.But no matter how much he was shocked, his mind was already racing. "Then what are you going to do?" Lottie asked again. "What am I going to do? Do nothing, do nothing." "Nothing? But—" Allen stretched out his hand and gently pressed the tip of Lottie's nose with his index finger. "Don't be so stupid," he said, "it's not what I'm going to do, it's what I've done." Fat flies buzzed in the air.The drillers looked down at the core as they had looked at the pie.The silence seemed to last forever.Harrelson stood on the ground, transfixed. "Is that oil?" a driller asked. Then Tom did one of the smartest things of his life.The kind of thing you might think of days after the fact, but never thought of doing at the time.Just Tom did it.immediately.His expression and tone didn't give away anything.He acted without delay. "Fuck!" he yelled, kicking the core hard with obvious frustration. "This bloody rotten rotten rotten stupid useless damn well is over." "Is there a question?" asked the stupidest driller timidly. "Damn lube leaked. Gotta do it again. Damn son of a bitch." He kicked the core bucket again. "Need to extract another core?" "right." The drillers looked at the old equipment and said, "Start now?" They would really like to empty the core bucket, put it down the hole again, and then bring the drill pipe out again, one by one, until the sky. black. "No, forget it, tomorrow. Let me work another hour on this poor well and I'll throw up." One of the drillers bent down, poked his thumb into the sand, and flicked the oil out. "Are you sure it's not oil?" "I'm pretty sure it's oil," Tom said, "precious Texas oil. It goes to one of the Gulf Coast oil refineries and comes out the other end in shiny red cans that say 'only Can be used as a lubricant'." "It oozes, eh?" "No, it just misses the underground home. Come on, let's go, all go, I'm going to take a break." The workers all disappeared.One of them walked over to the pie that was still standing on the ground like a stone mill.He tiptoed it, looked at it sadly, and went home like everyone else. Harrelson walked over to Tom. "Lubricant leak, eh?" "That's right." "very bad?" "Uh-huh." Harrelson sighed deeply and sat in the shadow of the rig.He wiped his face with a white handkerchief. "it's a pity." "right." "It's just that core barrels never use lubricant." "No need to." "Use nothing but mud." "No need to." Tom brought the core over to show Harrelson.Two people hold it up with their hands.They poke it with their fingernails.They smell it.They crush it between the palms of their hands.what is thereIt's oil. ＊＊ Rebecca was busy in the small garden at the back of the house when the car appeared, while Mitchell was scooping water from a bucket, trying to teach the bugs how to drink.The car—a dusty old car—sprinted to a stop in front of the house, its engine screeching.The driver ran along the garden path and entered the front door. "Mitch, you wait here a minute—" "I'm going to make 'em swim!" said Mitch cheerfully, coming up with a new idea. "No honey, bugs don't like swimming. How about making some nice sand castles for Mommy?" She watched Mickey until she was sure the bugs had escaped their swimming lessons, then hurried into the house. It's Tom. Crazy Tom, Obsessed Tom. He's holding on to anything that's worth selling.He had already rolled up clothes, crockery, a blue vase and a clock that Mrs. Elwick had given them with the quilts in the bedroom.When Rebecca saw him, he was hesitating over her thirty-dollar wedding ring on the windowsill, where Rebecca had left it at work.The little thing, who had tried to welcome him home with her usual fervent licks, barks, and wags of tail, was cowering in a corner in horror. "Tom, this is—" He stood up and let go of her ring. "Your necklace, dear," he interrupted, "I need cash now, as much as possible, as soon as possible." "Tom! We need money to buy a house! "To hell with the house. Let's buy a mansion." Rebecca saw a bank book lying nearby, and she realized at once that Tom had squeezed every penny out of their savings. "You can't do that," she said. "Half that money is mine, I earned it." "I'll give it back to you." "Tom! Don't do it, it's not—" "No, no, no, it's not like it used to be, it's not what you think it is. We're only so far, so far away from oil." Tom gestured with his thumb and forefinger two inches apart, his other hand in his pocket He pulled out a ball of compacted sand and threw it on the bare table.The sand looks mostly sand, with some black mimeographs that could have come from anywhere. A person's world can be completely changed in a matter of seconds.Rebecca's world changed.She knew there was no point in fighting her husband's obsessive addiction any longer.She could see that her dream of having a new home had been dashed.She saw that Tom would never escape the trap he had set for himself.Her world was reduced to ashes. "If you go now, we're finished. You know that." He stopped and grabbed her shoulders. "We're yards, maybe even feet, from the oil. Does that make any difference to you?" "You're always only a few yards away. Always a few more yards away." Tom snorted. "It's not the same now, understand?" He walked away from her, brushing the lump of sand off the kitchen table. "Smell and see." "Don't go, Tommy." "I have to go, right away." He looked at her necklace again, and wanted to ask for it again, but he barely held back.Rebecca could see that his fingers were eager to reach for her wedding ring. "I'll be back," he added. "Don't count on it." He pretended not to hear the words. "I'll write to you from Overton, as soon as possible." "I gave you three chances, Tommy. I swear I won't give you another chance." At this time, Mitchell had entered the house from the garden.His first impulse was to run to Dad, but something in the air frightened him, and he flinched, snuggling up against Rebecca's skirt and taking the little thing into his tiny arms.Tom lifted the four corners of the quilt and packed up all their family possessions. "Goodbye, Mickey, Dad will be back soon, please obey Mom." "Don't go, Tommy." "I will write." Tom looked around the hut one last time.There is nothing more to take.The room was almost empty save for wedding rings on the windowsill and oil sand on the table.He tousled Mickey's hair and kissed him.He wanted to kiss Rebecca, but she avoided his touch.Ten seconds later, the Ford car roared away. Leave Rebecca, get out of her life. Cops are cops are cops are cops. If you could go back to ancient Rome, or earlier civilizations like Assyria and Sumer at the dawn of civilization, you might find that the police looked exactly the same then as they do now.Big boots, broad shoulders, plain features, drooping nose, affectation, stubbornness. After Allen received Hartwell's telegram, his first move was to confirm and hire one of the most famous private detective companies in London.The three people standing in front of Alan now don't look like that, that's what they are.Together they had worked at Scotland Yard for sixty-eight years.Sixty-eight years of tracking and finding others. The most senior detective, Alfie Proctor, cleared his throat. "On April 15th, 1930, you provided us with a list of eighty-three persons who may have been interned in Hoechst, Germany during the Great War—" he texted it , but with little sign of embarrassment, "Heltshit POW camp, and your friend, Lieutenant Thomas Cleary, known as Tom, was probably held there at the time." Proctor paused briefly for Allen to confirm these facts.Allen nodded, and Proctor continued. "As of today, August 27th, we have been able to contact sixty-one of these eighty-three individuals. Of the twenty-one individuals we were unable to locate, six have died and four have immigrated to the United States ( three) and Australia (fourth). So far we have not been successful in identifying the whereabouts of the remaining ten, but we will - at your direction - continue our inquiries." Allen nodded, "Please check." "Of the sixty-one people we were able to find, five were unable to accept our questioning or were insane and were therefore excluded from our list of informants." Allen nodded more vigorously.Why the hell can't this guy just say it straight?Allen sighed secretly.This guy is a cop, here's why.And, because he's a cop, he can find as many people as possible.Proctor turned a page in his notebook, as if he didn't know what the results of his investigation were. "Of the fifty-six people we interviewed, nineteen had no recollection of Thomas Cleary or believed he was not in a POW camp. The remaining thirty-seven had some recollection of him, three of whom Twelve people were able to correctly point to his photo in five photos." "Yes! So he was there." "Yes, sir, there he is." "And...? You..." Proctor, finally feeling a tinge of pity, or maybe just finding the call of humanity stronger than all the years he's spent in the police force, puts down his notebook, "Well, sir, that's odd, we can confirm he's there. There's Eleven remembered his escape and the sensation it caused, and told us in enough detail to confirm that it wasn't made up--people make things up sometimes, sir, not that they mean to, but just to give help." "right." "No one—at least, no one I think credible—remembers that he was put to death for it. It doesn't look like this prison is particularly harsh, compared to other prisons. But it's strange, you see, No one can really remember much about him after the escape. Six swore he was transferred to another POW camp; nine said he lived to the end of the war and was released like the others; five Said he was sent to work on a farm and was no longer locked up with other people, or not as close as he used to be. Then, we asked again—" Proctor looked at his notebook again, "Is there One said he died in a coal mine accident; two said he got involved in a fight over a bowl of soup and died from his wounds, and one of the guys swore that when Cleary woke up he saw the Virgin Mary Ya and all the saints in heaven, he died that night with a happy smile on his face." Proctor closed his notebook. Allen's mind went blank with astonishment.You can send three senior detectives to find and question eighty-odd people—and the results are just as uncertain as they were at first.At least not in the oil industry.When you drill for oil, you either find it or you don't.Allen Soup has expanded into Iraq, for which drilling has so far been unsuccessful -- but at least the answer is clear and conclusive. "Listen, Proctor, what do you think about this? As a human being, I mean. I've heard your data, but what do you think about it? What do you think, is Tom alive or dead?" "Obviously, sir, anything I may venture to say is my own opinion." "Yes, yes, of course." "But it's my opinion, sir, that Tom Cleary didn't die at Hurt Shit during the war." "He survived?" "That's my opinion, sir, yes." It was the hardest drilling Tom had ever done. He toiled like hell every day—and tried not to dig an inch down.He selected the weakest drill pipes with extreme care, filing them at their weakest points at night, and carefully hoisting them into place the next day.Once the worn-out drill pipe was deep enough, Tom would jerk through the turntable while the drill bit pulled the rod as hard as it could.He tried twice.It failed both times. Then he waited for the carpenter to haul in a new bundle of lumber.He burnt out enough steam pressure.He tried it again, and look!The drill pipe first bent and then broke.Tom curses (but rejoices), and immediately begins the hard work of salvaging the broken pipe.Several days passed.Normally, Tom is good at salvage jobs, but this time the job would have taken years.那些牧牛钻工们做着汤姆吩咐他们做的事，直到周六晚上哈勒尔森忘了过来付工钱给他们。接下来的那个周一只来了一半人。等哈勒尔森仍然没能出现后，钻工们散去了。钻塔还在，汤姆还在，但没有任何动静。 他们失败的消息传遍了亨德森、欧弗顿、基尔戈和朗维尤。那是口废井，正如人人都已经料到的那样。 消息甚至传到了丽贝卡那儿，她仍独自住在南部。她没有落泪，至少在米奇玩累了睡熟之前没有落泪。然后她哭了。号啕大哭了三个小时，在那曾经是家的屋子里。 她从心底确定她永远不会再让汤姆回来。 ＊＊ 在这期间哈勒尔森非常繁忙。他跑去一家又一家农场，乞求他们把地租给他继续挖井。农场主们已经听说了哈勒尔森的失败。他们嘲笑他的白日梦，但他预先付给他们现金，请他们在合同上签字。他们签了，而且价钱很便宜。在这种比灰尘还干的土地上，有点现金总好过于什么都没有。因为汤姆富有远见卓识地封杀了他们挖出石油这一消息，哈勒尔森得以买下了将近一万七千亩土地上的钻探权。 他们花光了最后一分钱。 “汽车，”汤姆说。 “噢——天啊——没有车我怎么到处跑——” “卖掉。” 所以哈勒尔森卖掉了他的车，又买下了四千亩土地的钻探权。 “好了，”汤姆说，“开干吧。” 他们对外宣布了消息。他们去了欧弗顿镇上的百货店，告诉店主他们挖出了石油。他们告诉了亨德森那帮家伙。他们告诉了农民、牧牛工、以及街上遇到的每一个人。 消息传开。 一群人聚集在破旧的钻塔边。哈勒尔森乞讨木材，而木材就神奇地出现了。几个星期前散去的牧牛工们又回来了。虽然钻塔还是过去那个破旧的钻塔，虽然牧牛工们还是那么愚蠢，虽然油井连一勺油都还没有冒出——但空气里有一种新的东西，不一样的东西，比阳光还要明亮一些的东西。 汤姆从洞底打捞出摔碎的垃圾，开始扩整油井的四周。等到油井四周都牢固了以后，他又往下钻了七十五英尺。如果挖得太浅，石油层仍会位于钻头之下。如果挖得太深，他可能会穿过石油层而来到盐水层，从而毁掉这口油井成功的机会。这种时刻需要汤姆那来之不易的经验，而且每一盎司都需要。 他提起钻头，放下一个新近发明的钻杆检测器。这种仪器看上去很像岩芯桶，但它的功能是用来提取液体，而不是固体。他放下仪器。在下去的过程中，仪器撞上了井壁上一块隆起的地方，提前打开了。汤姆极为紧张。他想发疯般地抽油。他想钻井钻到石油从井口喷射而出。但理智与冲动激烈地交战着——最终理智取得了胜利。 汤姆又一次扩整了油井，将它的四周弄平滑，然后再一次放下检测仪。检测仪降到井底，在预定的时间打开，然后装满液体。 现在是时候把管子提上来了。 他们开始伸起钻杆，但远在管子进入视线之前，一股天然气味已经迎面而来。它不停地冒出来。散发着泥泞和硫磺臭味的气体从地下滚滚涌出。这种气味飘散到人群中的时候，引发一阵欢呼声和鼓掌声。属于老石油工的那种迷信让汤姆感到一阵愤怒。这帮农民怎么敢这么早就鼓掌从而带来厄运？他差点想把他们赶走，但没有人能被赶走，汤姆的头脑只能又一次跟他的冲动作战。 然后检测仪出现了。 汤姆准备打开仪器，但就在此时，油井开始摊牌。深深的地下传来一阵剧烈的振动。钻架台上的设备开始摇晃。高大的结构开始战栗。沉重的机械被紧紧压在承托着它的厚重横梁上，每块木料和铁棒都被绷紧。人群意识到有什么大事即将发生，惊奇地倒吸一口气往后退去。汤姆靠在一根震颤的木头上，将检测仪啪地一声打开。水和污泥泼到他的脚上，但水和污泥里带着石油。 就在油井开始发出明白无误的信号时，汤姆站起来胜利地大喊一声——“耶！” 喷涌而出的气流突然冲入空中。污泥、水和石油被喷进钻架。先是片刻震耳欲聋的寂静，然后又一声较低的爆炸声，又一股富含石油的污泥喷出来，然后又是寂静，只除了仍在冒溢的气体发出的轻微咝咝声。 寂静又持续了片刻，然后围观的七十五人开始自发地鼓掌。汤姆和其他钻工们快乐地跳起舞。其中一人用帽子舀起一大堆油泥，在空中挥了挥，然后扣到脑袋上，让油泥从头流到脚。 汤姆也沉醉在这一时刻。oil.他挖出了石油。这么长时间以来的梦想，曾经被艰难地放弃过的梦想，现在终于实现了。他简直不敢相信仍从钻架上往下流淌的发出恶臭的黑色污泥。 还有很多工作要做，但就在汤姆继续干活的时候，他发现自己奇怪地竟然不太兴奋。他记得“无油井”的格言：“只要井口没有出油，就还没有成功。”这话没错。如果油压过低，你可能永远也无法将这种宝贵的液体向上抽出半英里。这不仅仅是理论上存在的风险；和“无油井”一样，汤姆见过这样的事发生，所以他异常小心。 但他的低调反应还有另一个更重要的原因。跟锡格纳尔山上的他相比，此时的他更加成熟：更加成熟，而且更加聪明。他有一个家庭：巨人米奇和神奇丽贝卡。他的幸福现在取决于他们。完全取决。 而且不管有没有石油，他都不知道自己能否再见到他们。 Christmas Eve. 四点钟左右，一轮巨大的红太阳落到地平线以下。山毛榉冲着火红的阳光乱舞着光秃秃的枝丫，小路上因为落满了黑色落叶而变得滑溜。小路旁的田野里，一群不知为何受到惊吓的马匹正沿着泥泞的牧草狂奔，马蹄掀起透湿的草皮。 艾伦奔跑着。 他的靴子打滑了两次。两次他都是靠抓住伸出的树枝或是一手湿草才勉强站住。他身后的大屋子里，电灯的光芒透过楼下的窗户照射出来。他所跑向的小屋没有电灯，窗口一片漆黑。 他跑近这排屋子的最后一间：杰克·克瑞里以前住的小屋。艾伦对它的印象是多么深刻啊！就是在这儿，杰克耐心地教着两个热切的学生怎么设陷阱抓兔子，怎么从小溪里抓红鳟鱼，怎么在河里放瓶子设陷阱抓龙虾。就是在这间小屋，艾伦和汤姆了解了村子里的真实世界，与惠特科姆庄园完全不一样的世界。遇到要庆祝的事情——劳动节，婚礼，某个人从海军退伍回来——艾伦和汤姆就会爬出卧室的窗户，沿着排水管滑到厨房的屋顶上，然后再滑到地上。然后他们会跑到杰克·克瑞里的小屋里，先跟他一起喝一杯啤酒，然后再跟着他去参加聚会。那些都是多么盛大的聚会啊！啤酒，小提琴手，跳舞，两盏煤油灯挂在房椽上，在它们烟雾弥漫的火光下，没人会特别在意谁吻了谁。汤姆总是这些夜间远征行动的带头人，但杰克·克瑞里像欢迎他自己的儿子一样欢迎艾伦。 往事越来越强烈地呼唤着艾伦。他抬起手敲了敲门。 也许对有些行业来说，运气并不重要。也许有些商人可以看着镜子中六十岁的自己，发誓说他们今日的成就靠的是十足的才能和终身的奋斗。也许有些行业是如此无趣——做肉汤，弹棉花，卖刀叉——所以运气根本不会降临。 但是，石油业以前不是这样，现在不是这样，以后也不会是这样。如果某种奇迹改变了石油业，而且地质学家、电脑工作者、水利工程师和所有其他人使这一行业再也没有运气可言的话——那真正的石油商就会退出了。这个行业仍然会抽出石油，但它的灵魂已经死去，它的生命已经结束。 ＊＊ 自从第一股石油喷入空中以来，汤姆和众人马不停蹄地干了一个月才将油井安置到位。油井得用金属套筒套上，这些套筒都是标准管道和供应公司贷给他们的。他们得买来储油罐——只有三个，因为他们的钱只够买三个——以及一个合适的井口控制系统来取代目前的那一堆破烂。汤姆小心而专业地干着，但围观的人逐日增多，先是几百人，很快就变成了几千人。 等到一切都准备就绪，汤姆开始疏导油井，这有一点像是用家用橡皮揣子疏通水管。这套设备利用一个简单的真空吸尘器将水和泥从井底吸上来。等到吸力足够大的时候，石油就会跟着上来。 这只是理论。 汤姆不停地吸着，除了泥什么也没抽上来——但汤姆很有耐心。他坚持不懈地干着，终于在一个幸福的日子里他的耐心得到了回报。井底发出一声低鸣，就像是长号吹奏出的几乎无法耳闻的低音音域。低鸣结束后，又一股急流开始酝酿。 他们熄灭锅炉等待着，但他们并没有等太久。 油井最后一次猛烈地将一些泥和水喷到空中，随之而来的就是不停喷涌的石油。一名工人从口袋里拨出手枪，像个疯子一样开始开枪。汤姆只得扑到他身上把枪从他手上夺下来，害怕开枪会点燃气体，将整个钻塔炸到半空。 石油继续向上喷涌着。 那真是壮观的景象。 ＊＊ 蒂奇·哈勒尔森应该很高兴——当然了，他确实很高兴——但对他来说，挖出石油是个双重祝福。他所卖出的股份远远多于现有的股份。有一个租契他整整卖了十一次。“我猜我是有点狂热，”他闷闷不乐地承认。以前汤姆为他干活的时候，哈勒尔森曾经自夸拥有将近五千亩邻近土地的租契。但是，当他的律师和其他所有人开始挖掘真相时，他们发现真正为他所有的只有两亩地。第一轮法庭诉讼开始了。“破产”这个可怕的词开始从人们口中说出。 一天晚上，哈勒尔森跟汤姆在亨德森的一个旅馆房间里吃着奶酪和饼干。整个晚上哈勒尔森都在扯他的嘴唇，看上去又老又倦。 “你不会有事吧？”汤姆问。 “我想不会。” “你的曼宁格怎么说？” 曼宁格是哈勒尔森的律师。 “埃德？见鬼，埃德说……埃德说要把我生吞活剥。” “你说的是一切吗？” “可能吧，甚至有可能我会失去一切。” 汤姆摇摇头，“是你挖出了石油，蒂奇。没人会忘记是谁挖出的石油。” “对，先生！没错！” 有那么片刻哈勒尔森挺直腰板，勇敢地看着前方，但这一刻很短暂。他扯着嘴唇，捻着盘子里的饼干。在某些意义上，他追逐石油的时候比发现石油之后要更快乐。 “我可以帮你，蒂奇。” "Ok?" “我用钱让你脱离这一切麻烦。给你现金，接收你的债务，你轻松走人就是。” “你愿意？”这个主意让哈勒尔森神情一亮。 “我们得先谈妥价格。” “对，没错，我们得先谈妥。” 哈勒尔森想要逃离债务纠纷的迫切简直是一目了然。 “你想出个价吗？”汤姆说。 “嗯？当然……我是说，我得有钱过日子……也许再挖几口井。也许……也许……”他不知道该说个什么数目。他只想尽快回到从前的生活。 “一百万你能接受吗？” “一百万？天啊，伙计！一百万？你没有——” “大部分你都得先等等。有一些我可以在几天之内就给你。” 这么着他们就说定了。汤姆买下一切，所有的租契，所有的债务，用一百万美元。