High Citadel / Landslide

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘Trouble,’ I said, without looking up.

  ‘For us?’

  ‘For Matterson,’ I said. ‘If this is what I think it is, then that dam isn’t worth two cents. I could be wrong, though.’

  Mac cackled with laughter. ‘Hey, that’s the best news I’ve heard in years. What kind of trouble has he got?’

  I stood up. ‘Take a look and tell me what you see.’

  He bent down and peered through the eyepiece. ‘Don’t see much—just a few bits of rock—leastways, I think it’s rock.’

  I said, ‘That’s the stuff that goes to make up clay; it’s rock, all right. What else can you tell me about it? Try to describe is as though you were telling a blind man.’

  He was silent for a while, then he said, ‘Well, this isn’t my line. I can’t tell you what kind of rock it is, but there are a few big round bits and a lot of smaller flat ones.’

  ‘Would you describe those flat bits as card-shaped?’

  ‘Not so as you’d notice. They’re just thin and flat.’ He straightened up and rubbed his eyes. ‘How big are those things?’

  ‘The big roundish ones are grains of sand—they’re pretty big. The little flat ones are about two microns across—they’re the clay mineral. In this case I think it’s montmorillonite.’

  Mac flapped his hand. ‘You lost me way back. What’s a micron? It’s a long time since I went to school and they’ve changed things pretty much since.’

  ‘A thousandth of a millimetre,’ I said.

  ‘And this monty-what-d’you-call-it?’

  ‘Montmorillonite—just a clay mineral. It’s quite common.’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t see anything to get excited about.’

  ‘Few people would,’ I said. ‘I warned Howard Matterson about this, but the damned fool didn’t check. Anyone round here got a drilling-rig, Mac?’

  He grinned. ‘Think you found an oil well?’

  ‘I want something that’ll go through not more than forty feet of soft clay.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not even that. Anyone who wants to bore for water hires Pete Burke from Fort St John.’ He looked at me curiously. ‘You seem upset about this.’

  I said, ‘That dam is going to get smashed up if something isn’t done about it fast. At least, I think it is.’

  ‘That wouldn’t trouble me,’ said Mac decisively.

  ‘It might trouble me,’ I said. ‘No dam—no Matterson Lake, and Clare loses four million dollars because the Forestry Service wouldn’t allow the cut.’

  Mac stared at me open-mouthed. ‘You mean it’s going to happen now?’

  ‘It might happen to-night. It might not happen for six months. I might be wrong altogether and it might not happen at all.’

  He sat down. ‘All right, I give up. What can ruin a big chunk of concrete like that overnight?’

  ‘Quick clay,’ I said. ‘It’s pretty deadly stuff. It’s killed a lot of people in its time. I haven’t time to explain, Mac; I’m going to Fort St John—I want access to a good laboratory.’

  I left quickly and, as I started the jeep, I looked across at the cabin and saw Mac scratch his head and bend down to look through the microscope. Then I was moving away from the window fast, the wheels spinning because I was accelerating too fast.

  I didn’t much like the two hundred miles of night driving, but I made good time and Fort St John hadn’t woken up when I arrived; it was dead except for the gas-refining plant on Taylor Flat which never sleeps. I was registered by a drowsy desk clerk at the Hotel Condil and then caught a couple of hours’ sleep before breakfast.

  Pete Burke was a disappointment. ‘Sorry, Mr Boyd; not a chance. I’ve got three rigs and they’re all out. I can’t do anything for you for another month—I’m booked up solid.’

  That was bad. I said, ‘Not even for a bonus—a big one.’

  He spread his hands. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I looked from his office window into his yard. ‘There’s a rig there,’ I said. ‘What about that?’

  He chuckled. ‘Call that a rig! It’s a museum piece.’

  ‘Will it go through forty feet of clay and bring back cores?’ I asked.

  ‘If that’s all you want it to do, it might—with a bit of babying.’ He laughed. ‘I tell you, that’s the first rig I had when I started this business, and it was dropping apart then.’

  ‘You’ve got a deal,’ I said. ‘If you throw in some two-inch coring bits.’

  ‘Think you can operate it? I can’t spare you a man.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ I said, and we got down to the business of figuring out how much it was worth.

  I left Burke loading the rig on to the jeep and went in search of a fellow geologist. I found one at the oil company headquarters and bummed the use of a laboratory for a couple of hours. One test-tube full of mud was enough to tell me what I wanted to know: the mineral content was largely montmorillonite as I had suspected, the salt content of the water was under four grams a litre—another bad sign—and half-an-hour’s intensive reading of Grim’s Applied Clay Mineralogy told me to expect the worst.

  But inductive reasoning can only go so far and I had to drill to make sure. By early afternoon I was on my way back to Fort Farrell with that drilling rig which looked as if it had been built from an illustration in Agricola’s De Re Metallica.

  II

  Next morning, while inhaling the stack of hot-cakes Mac put before me, I said, ‘I want an assistant, Mac. Know any husky young guy who isn’t scared of the Mattersons?’

  ‘There’s me.’

  I looked at his scrawny frame. ‘I want to haul a drilling-rig up the escarpment by the dam. You couldn’t do it, Mac.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ he said dejectedly. ‘But can I come along anyway?’

  ‘No harm in that, if you think you’re up to it. But I must have another man to help me.’

  ‘What about Clarry Summerskill—he doesn’t like Matterson and he’s taken a fancy to you?’

  I said dubiously, ‘Clarry isn’t exactly my idea of a husky young guy.’

  ‘He’s pretty tough,’ said Mac. ‘Any guy called Clarence who survives to his age must be tough.’

  The idea improved with thinking. I could handle a drilling-rig but the stone-age contraption I’d saddled myself with might be troublesome and it would be handy to have a mechanic around. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Put it to him. If he agrees, ask him to bring a tool kit—he might have to doctor a diseased engine.’

  ‘He’ll come,’ said Mac cheerfully. ‘His bump of curiosity won’t let him keep away.’

  By mid-morning we were driving past the powerhouse and heading up the escarpment road. Matterson’s construction crew didn’t seem to have made any progress in getting that armature towards its resting-place, and there was just as much mud, but more churned up than ever. We didn’t stop to watch but headed up the hill, and I stopped about halfway up.

  ‘This is it.’ I pointed across the escarpment. ‘I want to drill the first hole right in the middle, there.’

  Clarry looked up the escarpment at the sheer concrete wall of the dam. ‘Pretty big, isn’t it? Must have cost every cent of what I heard.’ He looked back down the hill. ‘Those guys likely to make trouble, Mr Boyd?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘They’ve been warned off.’ Privately I wasn’t too sure; walking around and prospecting was one thing, and operating a drilling-rig was something very different. ‘Let’s get the gear out.’

  The heaviest part was the gasoline engine which drove the monster. Clarry and I manhandled it across the escarpment, staggering and slipping on the slope, and dumped it at the site I had selected, while Mac stayed by the jeep. After that it was pretty easy, though time-consuming, and it was nearly two hours before we were ready to go.

  That rig was a perfect bastard, and if Clarry hadn’t been along I doubt if I would ever have got it started. The main trouble was the engine, a cranky old two-stroke which refused to start, but Clarry coze
ned it, and after the first dozen refusals it burst into a noisy clatter. There was so much piston slap that I half expected the connecting-rod to bust clean out of the side of the engine, but it held together by good luck and some magic emanating from Clarry, so I spudded in and the job got under way.

  As I expected, the noise brought someone running. A jeep came tearing up the road and halted just behind mine and my two friends of the first encounter came striding across. Novak yelled above the noise of the engine, ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  I cupped my hand round my ear. ‘Can’t hear you.’

  He came closer. ‘What are you doing with this thing?’

  ‘Running a test hole.’

  ‘Turn the damned thing off,’ he roared.

  I shook my head and waved him away downhill and we walked to a place where polite conversation wasn’t so much of a strain on the eardrums. He said forcefully, ‘What do you mean—running a test hole?’

  ‘Exactly what I say—making a hole in the ground to see what comes up.’

  ‘You can’t do that here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because…because…’

  ‘Because nothing,’ I snapped. ‘I’m legally entitled to drill on Crown land.’

  He was undecided. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he said belligerently, and strode away back to his jeep. I watched him go, then went back to the drill to supervise the lifting of the first core.

  Drilling through clay is a snap and we weren’t going very deep, anyway. As the cores came up I numbered them in sequence and Mac took them and stowed them away in the jeep. We had finished the first hole before Jimmy Waystrand got round to paying us a visit.

  Clarry was regretfully turning off the engine when Mac nudged me. ‘Here comes trouble.’

  I stood up to meet Waystrand. I could see he was having his own troubles down at the powerhouse by his appearance; he was plastered with mud to mid-thigh, splashed with mud everywhere else, and appeared to be in a short temper. ‘Do I have to have trouble with you again?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not if you don’t want it,’ I said. ‘I’m not doing anything here to cause you trouble.’

  ‘No?’ He pointed to the rig. ‘Does Mr Matterson know about that?’

  ‘Not unless someone told him,’ I said. ‘I didn’t ask his permission—I don’t have to.’

  Waystrand nearly blew his top. ‘You’re sinking test holes between the Matterson dam and the Matterson powerhouse, and you don’t think you need permission? You must be crazy.’

  ‘It’s still Crown land,’ I said. ‘If Matterson wants to make this his private preserve he’ll have to negotiate a treaty with the Government. I can fill this hillside as full of holes as a Swiss cheese, and he can’t do anything about it. You might get on the telephone and tell him that. You can also tell him he didn’t read my report and he’s in big trouble.’

  Waystrand laughed. ‘He’s in trouble?’ he said incredulously.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘So are you, judging by the mud on your pants. It’s the same trouble—and you tell Howard exactly that.’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ said Waystrand. ‘And I can guarantee you won’t drill any more holes.’ He spat on the ground near my foot and walked away.

  Mac said, ‘You’re pushing it hard, Bob.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Let’s get on with it. I want two more holes today. One on the far side and another back there by the road.’

  We hauled the rig across the hillside again and sank another hole to forty feet, and then laboriously hauled it all the way back to a point near the jeep and sank a third hole. Then we were through for the day and packed the rig in the back of the jeep. I wanted to do a lot more boring and normally I would have left the rig on the site but this was not a normal operation and I knew that if I left the rig it would look even more smashed up by morning.

  We drove down the hill again and were stopped at the bottom by a car which skidded to a stop blocking the road. Howard Matterson got out and came close. ‘Boyd, I’ve had all I can stand from you,’ he said tightly.

  I shrugged. ‘What have I done now?’

  ‘Jimmy Waystrand says you’ve been drilling up there. That comes to a stop right now.’

  ‘It might,’ I agreed. ‘If I’ve found out what I want to know. I wouldn’t have to drill, Howard, if you’d read my report. I told you to watch out for qui—’

  ‘I’m not interested in your goddam report,’ he butted in. ‘I’m not even interested in your drilling. But what I am interested in is this story I hear about you being the guy who survived the crash in which old Trinavant was killed.’

  ‘Are people saying that?’ I said innocently.

  ‘You know goddam well they’re saying it. And I want that stopped, too.’

  ‘How can I stop it?’ I asked. ‘I’m not responsible for what folks say to each other. They can say what they like—it doesn’t worry me. It seems to worry you, though.’ I grinned at him pleasantly. ‘Now, I wonder why it should.’

  Howard flushed darkly. ‘Look, Boyd—or Grant—or whatever else you call yourself—don’t try to nose into things that don’t concern you. This is the last warning you’re going to get. My old man gave you a warning and now it’s coming from me, too. I’m not as soft as my old man—he’s getting foolish in his old age—and I’m telling you to get to hell out of here before you get pushed.’

  I pointed at his car. ‘How can I get out with that thing there?’

  ‘Always the wisecracks,’ said Howard, but he went back and climbed into his car and opened a clear way. I eased forward and stopped alongside him. ‘Howard,’ I said. ‘I don’t push so easily. And another thing—I wouldn’t call your father soft. He might get to hear of it and then you’d find out personally how soft he is.’

  ‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours,’ said Howard, and took off. His exit was spoiled by the mud on the road; his wheels failed to grip and he skidded sideways and the rear of his auto crunched against a rock. I grinned and waved at him and carried on to Fort Farrell.

  Clarry Summerskill said thoughtfully, ‘I did hear something about that yesterday. Is it right, Mr Boyd?’

  ‘Is what right?’

  ‘That you’re this guy, Grant, who was smashed up with John Trinavant?’

  I looked at him sideways, and said softly, ‘Couldn’t I be anyone else besides Grant?’

  Summerskill looked puzzled. ‘If you were in that crash I don’t rightly see who else you could be. What sort of games are you playing, Mr Boyd?’

  ‘Don’t think about it too much, Clarry,’ advised Mac. ‘You might sprain your brain. Boyd knows what he’s doing. It’s worrying the Mattersons, isn’t it? So why should it worry you, too?’

  ‘I don’t know that it does,’ said Clarry, brightening a little. ‘It’s just that I don’t understand what’s going on.’

  Mac chuckled. ‘Neither does anyone else,’ he said. ‘Neither does anyone else—but we’re getting there slowly.’ Clarry said, ‘You want to watch out for Howard Matterson, Mr Boyd—he’s got a low boiling-point. When he gets going he can be real wild. Sometimes I think he’s a bit nuts.’

  I thought so, too, but I said, ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that, Clarry, I can handle him.’

  When we pulled up in front of Mac’s cabin, Clarry said, ‘Say, isn’t that Miss Trinavant’s station wagon?’

  ‘It is,’ said Mac. ‘And there she is.’

  Clare waved as she came to meet us. ‘I felt restless,’ she said. ‘I came over to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘Glad to have you,’ said Mac. He grinned at me. ‘You’ll have to sleep out in the woods again.’

  Clarry said, ‘Your auto going all right, Miss Trinavant?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ she assured him.

  ‘That’s great. Well, Mr Boyd, I’ll be getting along home—my wife will be wondering where I am. Will you need me again?’

  ‘I might,’ I said. ‘Look, Clarry; Howard Matterson saw you with me. Will
that make trouble for you? I’m not too popular right now.’

  ‘No trouble as far as I’m concerned—he’s been trying to put me out of business for years and he ain’t done it yet. You want me, you call on me, Mr Boyd.’ He shook his head. ‘But I sure wish I knew what was going on.’

  Mac said, ‘You will, Clarry. As soon as we know ourselves.’

  Summerskill went home and Mac shepherded Clare and me into the cabin.

  ‘Bob’s being awfully mysterious about something,’ he said. ‘He’s got some crack-brained idea that the dam is going to collapse. If it does, you’ll be four million dollars to the bad, Clare.’

  She shot me a swift glance. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I am. I’ll be able to tell you more about it when I’ve looked at the cores I’ve got in the jeep. Let’s unload them, Mac.’

  Pretty soon the table was filled with the lengths of two-inch cylindrical core. I arranged them in order and rejected those I didn’t want. The cores I selected for inspection had a faint film of moisture on the surface and felt smooth and slick, and a check on the numberings told me that they’d come up from the thirty-foot level. I separated them in three heaps and said to Clare, ‘These came from three borings I made today on the escarpment between the dam and the powerhouse.’ I stroked one of them and looked at the moisture on my finger. ‘If you had as many sticks of dynamite you couldn’t have anything more dangerous.’

  Mac moved away nervously and I smiled. ‘Oh, these are all right here; it’s the stuff up at the escarpment I’m worried about. Do you know what “thixotropic” means?’

  Clare shook her head and Mac frowned. ‘I should know,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m damned if I do.’

  I walked over to a shelf and picked up a squeeze-tube. ‘This is the stickum I use on my hair; it’s thixotropic gel.’ I uncapped the tube and squeezed some of the contents into the palm of my hand. ‘Thixotropic means “to change by touch”. This stuff is almost solid, but when I rub it in my hands, like this, it liquefies. I brush it on to my hair—so—and each hair gets a coating of the liquid. Then I comb it and, after a while, it reverts to its near solid state, thus keeping the hair in place.’