White Death
Page 16
“Look, they put you in the hold. Then what did I do? Did I tell the boys to wait a couple of hours and then start pumping oil? I did not. I told them this was a special emergency, we had to get that hold filled before anyone started looking. I told them to get out there and start pumping now, immediately, at once. And that did it. One ship taking on oil without even a dockside gang to help—well, hell, a half-wit could have figured it from there.”
Dain didn’t say anything. Smith chewed at his lip and said, “You aren’t going to welsh on me, are you? I took my life in my hands, giving that order. If Fahad and the boys hadn’t been so nervous, they’d of seen what I was doing. I took a big risk.”
“You might have drowned us,” Dain said.
“Not a chance,” Smith told him. “It takes better than four hours to fill that hold. If the local cops hadn’t caught on, I would have slipped ashore an hour or two later and told them.”
He watched with considerable anxiety while Dain thought about his story. At last Dain said, “All right, Mr. Smith, I think it’s only fair to give you the benefit of the doubt. I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Smith’s gratitude was a beautiful thing to behold.
Fahad is dead now, and Mr. Smith is serving a long sentence in an American prison. Sadly enough, not one of the “board of directors” has been convicted, though the Attorney General and several congressional committees have assailed them. Mr. Dain paid Chitai and me very generously, and also insisted upon giving a reward to Hansen, even though no promise had been made. Then Dain went to Washington, and I have not heard from him since.
Hansen is still driving a truck here in Iran. For a while he thought about starting his own detective agency. But he found little opportunity for such work, either in Iran or Sweden. I still see him from time to time.
Chitai went back to the Dushak Turkomans. Because of his wealth, he was made a tribal leader, a position in which he takes great pleasure. I see him only rarely, but we always have enjoyable talks when we meet. His feud with the Altais has been settled, for the Irani Army stepped in and announced that henceforth it would do all the fighting. To prove its point, it killed several Turkomans from either tribe, doing so with a fine show of impartiality. So the Turkomans have taken to farming, unbelievable as it may seem. But once in a while I hear of a bandit raid on an Afghan border village, and I know that my friend has not completely forgotten the old ways.
As for me, I invested my money in land, and in several small businesses, all of which have prospered. I live with my parents in a large house in Isfahan, and we have the finest garden for a hundred miles around. I have also taken a wife, a very beautiful girl whom I have known for years, but who became interested in me only after I had made my fortune.
Hansen does not consider this a propitious match. But I prefer knowledge to sentiment, and my wife and I understand each other very well. I think she has grown genuinely fond of me, especially now that a child is on the way.
So I am well-off, happily married, and soon to have children. I ascribe my good fortune to hard work, honesty, and a measure of inventiveness. Nothing has been denied me. And yet, perversely, I sometimes dream that Dain will come back into my life, carrying me away on some preposterous adventure, and giving me the opportunity of risking my neck once again on some mountain, desert, or marsh. …
Surely this is a strange desire; and yet, there it is. I want what I do not have, and in the midst of life I cry out for the cold presence of death.
But perhaps my desire is, in reality, no more than an acceptance of a future to come. For I am sure that Dain and I must meet again.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1963 by Robert Sheckley
ISBN 978-1-4804-9670-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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