popeye climbed nimbly up onto the collar, and glanced about him to make sure all was in readiness. the foreman driller was at the controls, watching popeye with complete absorption, his hands resting on the levers.
'power up!' shouted popeye and made the circular motion with his right hand. the diesels bellowed harshly, and popeye reached out to lay his left hand on the drilling rod. this was how he did it, feeling the rod with his bare hand as he brought in the power, judging the tension by ear and eye and touch.
his right hand gestured and the foreman delicately let in the clutch the rod moved under popeye's hand, he gestured again and it revolved slowly. he could feel it was near breaking point and he cut down the power instantly, then let it in again. his right hand moved eloquently, as expressively as an orchestral conductor, and the foreman followed it, the junior member of a highly skilled team.
slowly the tension of the gang relaxed as the revolutions of the drill built up steadily, until popeye gave the clenched fist 'okay' and jumped down from the collar. they scattered casually to their other duties, while popeye and the foreman strolled back to the shed, leaving the drill to grind away at a steady four hundred revolutions a minute.
'got something for you,' said the foreman, as they entered the shed.
'what?' demanded popeye.
the latest playboy.'
'you're kidding!' popeye accused him delightedly, but the foreman fished the rolled magazine out of his lunch box.
'hey, there!' popeye snatched it from him and turned immediately to the coloured foldout.
'isn't that something!' he whistled. this dolly could get a job in a stockyard beating the oxen to death with her boo-boos!' the foreman joined the discussion of the young lady's anatomy, and so neither of them noticed the change in the sound of the drill until two minutes had passed. then popeye heard it through an erotic haze. he flung the magazine from him, and went through the door of the shed white-faced.
it was fifty yards from the shed to the rig, but even at that distance popeye could see the vibration in the drilling rod. he could hear the labouring note of the diesels as they carried increased load. he ran like a fox terrier, trying to reach the controls and shut off the engines before it happened.
he knew what it was. his drill had cut into one of the many fissures with which this badly faulted ground was crisscrossed. the puddling water from his borehole had drained away leaving the bit to run dry against dry rock.
the friction head had built up, the dust from the cut was not being washed away and in consequence the rod had jammed. it was being held tightly at one end while at the other the two big diesels were straining to turn it. the whole rig was seconds away from a twist-off.
there should have been an operator at the controls to meet just such an emergency, but he was a hundred yards away, just emerging from the wood and iron latrine beyond the puddling dam. he was desperately trying to hoist his pants, clinch the buckle of his belt and run all at the same time.
'you whore's chamber pot roared popeye, as he ran.
'what the hell you goofing off-' the words choked off in his throat, for as he reached the door of the engine room there was a report like a cannon shot as the rod snapped, and immediately the diesels screamed into over-rev as they were relieved of the load.
just too late, popeye punched the earth buttons on the magnetos, and the engines spluttered into silence.
in that silence popeye was sobbing with exertion and frustration and anger.
'a twist-off, he sobbed. 'a deep one. oh no! god, now it might take two weeks to fish out the broken rod, pump cement into the fissure to seal it, and then start again.
he removed the cap from his head, and with all his strength hurled it on the engine room floor. he then proceeded to jump on it with both feet. this was standard procedure. popeye jumped on his cap at least once a week, and the foreman knew that when he had finished doing it, that he would then assault anybody within range.
quietly the foreman slipped behind the wheel of the ford truck, and the rest of the gang scrambled aboard. they all bumped away down the rutted track. there was a roadhouse on the main road where they went for coffee at times like this. when the mists of rage had dispersed sufficiently from his mind for popeye to start seeking a human sacrifice, he looked about to find the drilling area strangely still and deserted.
'stupid bunch of yellow-bellied baboons!' he bellowed in frustration after the retreating truck, and, as the next best thing, went into the shed to phone his managing director.
this gentleman sitting in the air-conditioned offices of 'hart drilling and cementation' high above rissik street in johannesburg was a little taken aback to learn from popeye worth that he, the managing director, was directly responsible for the twist-off of an expensive diamond drill at the sander ditch no. 5 hole.
'if you used that sack of custard that passes for a brain, you'd fight shy of trying to sink holes into this bunch of knitting,' popeye yelled into the mouthpiece. 'i'd prefer to stick my old man into a meat grinder than put a drill into this ground. it stinks, i tell you!
it's really ugly down there.
god help the poor son of a bitch who tries to mine it!' he slammed down the phone and stuffed his pipe with trembling fingers. ten minutes later his breathing had returned to normal and his hands were steady. he picked up the phone again and dialled the number of the roadhouse. the proprietor answered.
'jose, tell my boys it's okay, they can come home now,' said popeye.
for rod ironsides there was more excitement than usual in meeting and solving the dozen paper problems that lay an his desk to welcome him back to the office. as he worked he kept remembering that manfred steyner might be able to do it, might just be able to do it.
the sander ditch might really belong to him soon. he dispatched the last problem and lay back in his swivel chair.
his mind was clear of the last cobwebs of dissipation and, as always, he felt purged and cleansed.
if i get her, i'll make her the star performer in the whole field, he thought greedily, they'll talk about the sander ditch from wall street to the bourse, and about the man who is running her. i know how to do it too. i'll cut the costs to the bone, i'll tighten her up solid. frank lemmer was a good man, he could get the stuff out of the ground, but he let it creep up on him. it cost him almost nine rand a ton to mill it.
well, i'll get it out as well as he did and i'll get it out cheaper. an operation takes its temperament from the man at the head.
frank lemmer would talk about costs every now and then, but he didn't mean it and we knew he didn't mean it. we have become a wasteful operation because we are on a rich reef, we have become big spenders.
well, i'm going to talk costs, and i'll skin the arse of anybody who thinks i'm joking.
last year hamilton at western holdings kept his working costs per ton milled down to just a touch over six rand.
i could do the same here! i could jump our profits twelve million rand in one year, if only they give me the job i'll shout the sander ditch's name across the financial markets of the world.
the problem that rod was pondering was the nightmare of the gold mining industry. since the 1930s the price of gold had been fixed at $35 a fine ounce. each year since then the cost of mining had crept up steadily. in those days they reckoned four penny- weights of gold in a ton of ore was payable value. now around eight penny-weights was the marginal value.
so in the interim all those millions of tons of ore whose values fell between four and eight penny-weights had been placed beyond the reach of man until such time as they increased the price of gold.
there were many mines with vast reserves of gold bearing ore, millions in bullion, whose values lay just below the magical number eight. those mines stood deserted and forlorn, rust reddening their head gears and the corrugated iron roofs of the buildings collapsing wearily. rising costs it had shot the guts out of them, they were condemned by the single word'llnpay'.
the sander ditch was running twenty to twenty-five penny-weights per ton. she was fat, but she could be fatter, rod decided.
there was a knock at the door.
'come in!' called rod, and looked at his watch. it was nine o'clock already. time for the monday meeting of his mine captains.
they came in singly and in pairs, twelve of them. these were rod's front-line men, his combat officers. they went down there each day, each to his own section, and directed the actual assault on the rock.
while they chatted idly, waiting for the meeting to begin, rod looked them over surreptitiously and was reminded of a remark that herman koch of anglo american had made to him once.
'mining is a hard game, and it attracts a hard breed of men.
these were men of the hard breed, physically and mentally tough, and rod realized with a start that he was one of them. no, more than one of them. he was their leader, and with a fierce affection and pride he opened the meeting.
'right, let's hear your gripes. who is going to be first to break my heart?' there are some men with a talent for controlling, and getting the very best results out of other men. rod was one of them.
