the end of the month. We'll see after that.' She stood up.
'Now, I'll get your things moved up to the new office.'
'Thank you, Miss. Jordan.' With relief he let her take over, and tackled the problems that were piling up on his desk. One man, two jobs. Now he was responsible for surface operation as well as underground. The phone rang, men queued up in the passage, memos kept coming through from Dimitri's office. There was no lunch hour, and by the time she rang he was exhausted.
'Hello,' she said. 'Do I see you tonight?' Her voice was as refreshing as a wet cloth on the brow of a prize-fighter between rounds.
'Terry.' He simply spoke her name in reply.
'Yes or no. If it's no, I intend jumping off the top of Reef Building.' 'Yes,' he said. 'Pops has summoned me to a meeting at nine tomorrow morning, so I'll be staying overnight at the apartment. I'll call you as soon as I get in.' 'Goody! Goody! said she.
At five-thirty Dimitri stuck his head around the door.
'I'm going down to No. 1 shaft to supervise the shoot, Rod.'
'My God, what time is it?' Rod checked his watch. 'So late already.'
'It gets late early around here,' Dimitri agreed. 'I'm off.) 'Wait!'
Rod stopped him. 'I'll shoot her.'
'No trouble.' Dimitri demurred. Company standard procedure laid down that each day's blast must be supervised by either the Underground Manager or his assistant.
'I'll do it,' Rod repeated. Dimitri opened his mouth to protest further, then he saw that expression on Rod's face and changed his mind quickly.
'Okay then. See you tomorrow.' And he was gone.
Rod grinned at his own sentimentality. The Sander Ditch was his now and, by God, he was going to shoot his own first blast on her.
They were waiting for him at the steel door of the blast control room at the shaft head. It was a small concrete room like a wartime pillbox, and there were only two keys to the door. Dimitri had one, Rod the other.
The duty mine captain and the foreman electrician added their congratulations to the hundreds he had received during the day, and Rod opened the door and they went into the tiny room.
'Check her out,' Rod instructed, and the mine captain began his calls to the shaft overseers at both No. 1 and No. 2 for their confirmation that the workings of the Sander Ditch were deserted, that every human being who had gone down that morning had come out again this evening.
Meanwhile, the foreman electrician was busy at the electrical control board. He looked up at Rod.
'Ready to close the circuits, Mr. Ironsides.' 'Go ahead, Rod nodded and the man touched a switch.
A green light showed up on the board.
'No. 1 north longwall closed and green.'
'Lock her in,' Rod instructed and the electrician touched another switch.
'No. 1 east longwall closed and green.'
'Lock her in.' The green light showed that the firing circuit was intact.
A red light would indicate a fault and the faulty circuit would not be locked into the blast pattern.
Circuit after circuit was readied until finally the foreman stood back from the control board.
'All green and locked in.' Rod glanced at the mine captain.
'All levels clear, Mr. Ironsides. She's ready to burn.' 'Cheesa!' said Rod, the traditional command that had come down from the days when each fuse had been individually lit by a hand-held igniter stick.
'Cheesa' was the Bantu word for ' burn The mine captain crossed to the control board and opened the cage that guarded a large red button.
'Cheesa!' echoed the mine captain and hit the button with the heel of his hand.
Immediately the row of green lights on the control board was extinguished, and in its place showed a row of red lights. Every circuit had been broken by the explosions.
The ground under their feet began to tremble. Throughout the workings the shots were firing. In the stopes the head charges fired at the top of the inclines, then in succession the other shots went off behind them. Each charge taking a ten-ton bite of rock and reef out of the face.
At the end of the development drives, a more complicated pattern was shooting. First a row of cutters went off down the middle of the oval face. Then the shoulder charges at the top corners, followed by the knee charges at the bottom corners. A moment's respite with the dust and nitrous fumes swirling back down the drive, then a roar as the easers on each side shaped the hole. Another respite and then the lifters along the bottom picked up the heap of broken rock and threw it back from the face.
Rod could imagine it clearly. Though no human eye had ever witnessed the blast, he knew exactly what was taking place down there.
The last tremor died away.
'That's it. A full blast,' said the mine captain.
'Thank you.' Rod -felt tired suddenly. He wanted that drink, even though their brief exchange that morning had warned him that Dan would probably be insufferable. He could guess the conversation would revolve around Dan's new-found love.
Then he smiled as he. thought about what waited for him in Johannesburg later that night, and suddenly he wasn't all that tired.
They sat facing each other.
'Only three things worry me,' Terry told Rod.
'What are they?' Rod rubbed soap into the face flannel.
'Firstly, your legs are too long for this bath.' Rod rearranged his limbs, and Terry shot half out of the water with a squeak.
'Rodney Ironsides, would you be good enough to take a bit more care where you put your toes?' 'Forgive me.' He leaned forward to kiss her. 'Tell me what else worries you.'
'Well, the second thing that worries me is that I'm not worried.'
'What part of Ireland did you say you were from?' Rod asked. 'County Cork?'
'I mean, it's terrible but I'm not even a little conscience-stricken.
Once I believed that if it ever happened to me I would never be able to look another human being in the eyes, I'd be so ashamed.' She took the flannel from his hands and began soaping his chest and shoulders. 'But, far from being ashamed, I'd like to stand in the middle of Eloff Street at rush hour and shout 'Rodney Ironsides is my lover'.'
'Let's drink to that.' Rodney rinsed the soap from his hands and reached over the side of the bath to pick up the two wine glasses from the floor. He gave one to Terry and they clinked them together, the sparkling Cape burgundy glowed ruby red.
Rodney Ironsides is my lover!' she toasted him.
'Rodney Ironsides is your lover,' he agreed and they drank.
'Now, I give you a toast,' he said.
what is it?' She held her glass ready, and Rod leaned forward and poured the red wine from the crystal glass between her breasts. It ran like blood down her white skin and he intoned solemnly: 'Bless this ship and all who sail in her!' Terry gurgled with delight.
'To her captain. May he keep a firm hand on the rudder!'
'May her bottom never hit the reef!'
'May she be torpedoed regularly!'
'Terry Steyner, you are terrible.'
'Yes, aren't I?' And they drained their glasses.
'Now,' Rod asked, 'what is your third worry?'
'Manfred will be home on Saturday.' They stopped laughing, Rod reached down for the burgundy bottle and refilled the glasses.
'We still have five days,' he said.
It had been a week of personal triumph for Manfred Steyner. His address to the conference had been the foundation of the entire talks, all discussion had revolved upon it. He had been called upon to speak at the closing banquet which General de Gaulle had attended in person, and afterwards the General had asked Manfred to take coffee and brandy With him in one of the ante-rooms.
The General had been gracious, had asked questions and listened attentively-to the answers. Twice he had called his finance minister's attention to Manfred's replies.
Their farewells had been cordial, with a hint of state recognition for Manfred, a decoration. In common with most Germans, Manfred had a weakness for uniforms and decorations. He imagined how a star and ribbon might look on the snowy front of his dress shirt.
There had been a wonderful press both in France and at home. Even a bad-tempered quarter column in Time magazine, with a picture, de Gaulle stooping over the diminutive Manfred solicitously, one hand on his shoulder. The caption , read: 'The huntsman and the hawk. To catch a dollar?' Now standing in the tiny cloakroom in the tail of the South African Airways Boeing, Manfred was whistling softly as he stripped his shirt and vest, crumpled them into a ball and dropped them into the waste bin.
Naked to the waist, he wiped his upper body with a wet cloth and then rubbed 4711 Eau de Cologne into his skin.
From the briefcase he took an electric razor. The
