"i didn't mean it that way," apologized rod.
"what way, mr. ironsides?" she looked up and enquired with mischievous innocence, and they laughed together with the awkwardness gone again.
she walked beside him to the car, making it seem a completely natural thing to do, and as he slipped behind the steering-wheel she remarked: "manfred and i will be coming out to the sander ditch next week.
manfred is to present long service and bravery awards to some of your men." she had already refused the invitation to accompany manfred, she must now see to it that she was re-invited. "i shall probably see you then."
"i look forward to it," said rod, and let in the clutch.
rod glanced in the rear view mirror. she was a remarkably provocative and attractive woman. a careless man could drown in those eyes.
"doctor manfred steyner has got himself a big fat problem there," he decided. "our manfred is probably so busy soaping and scrubbing his equipment, that he never gets round to using it." through the leaded windows doctor steyner caught a glimpse of the maserati as it disappeared around the curve in the driveway, and he listened as the throb of the engine dwindled into silence.
he lifted the receiver of the telephone and wiped it with the white handkerchief before putting it to his ear. he dialled and while it rang he inspected the nails of his free hand minutely.
"steyner," he said into the mouthpiece. "yes yes." he listened.
"yes... he has just left... yes, it is arranged... no, there will be no difficulty there, i am sure." as he spoke he was looking at the palm of his hand, he saw the tiny beads of perspiration appear on his skin and an expression of disgust tightened his lips.
"i am fully aware of the consequences. i tell you, i know." he closed his eyes and listened for another minute without moving as the receiver squawked and cracked, then he opened his eyes.
"it will be done in good time, i assure you. goodbye." he hung up and went to wash his hands. now, he thought, as he worked up lather, to get it past the old man.
he was old now, seventy-eight long hard years old.
his hair and his eyebrows were creamy white. his skin was folded and creased, freckled and spotted, hanging in unexpected little pouches under his chin and eyes.
his body had dried out, so he stood gaunt and stooped like a tree that has taken a set before the prevailing winds; but there was still the underlying urgency in the way he held himself, the same urgency that had earned him the name of "hurry" hirschfeld when first he bustled into the gold fields sixty years ago.
on this monday morning he was standing before the full length windows of his penthouse office, looking down on the city of
johannesburg. reef house stood shoulder to massive shoulder with the schlesinger building on the braamfontein ridge above the city proper.
from this height it seemed that johannesburg cowered at hurry hirschfeld's feet, as well it should. long ago, even before the great depression of the thirties, he had ceased to measure his wealth in terms of money. he owned outright a little over a quarter of the issued share capital of central rand consolidated. at the present market price of r120 per share, this was a staggering sum. in addition, through a complicated arrangement of trusts, proxy rights and interlocking directorates, he had control of a further massive block of twenty percent of the company's voting rights.
the overhead intercom pinged softly into this room of soft fabrics and muted colours, and hurry started slightly.
"yes," he said, without turning away from the window.
"doctor steyner is here, mr. hirschfeld," his secretary's voice whispered, ghostly and disembodied into the luscious room.
"send him in," snapped hurry. that god damned intercom always gave him the creeps. the whole god damned room gave him the creeps. it was, as hurry had said often and loudly, like a fairy brothel.
for fifty-five years he had worked in a bleak uncarpeted office with a few yellowing photographs of men and machinery on its walls.
then they had moved him in here he glanced around the room with the distaste that five years had not lulled. what did they think he was, a bloody ladies" hairdresser?
the panelling door slid noiselessly aside and doctor manfred steyner stepped neatly into the room.
"good morning, grandfather," he said. for ten years, even since terry had been bird-brained enough to marry him, manfred steyner had called hurry hirschfeld that, and hurry hated it. he remembered now that manfred steyner was also responsible for the design and decor of reef house, and therefore the author of his recent irritation.
"whatever it is you want no!" he said, and he moved across to the air-conditioning controls. the thermostat was already set at "high', now hurry turned it to "highest'.
within minutes the room would be at the correct temperature for growing orchids.
"how are you this morning, grandfather?" manfred seemed not to have heard, his expression was bland and neutral as he moved to the desk and laid out his papers.
"bloody awful," said hurry. it was impossible to disconcert the little prig, he thought, you might as well shout insults at an efficiently functioning piece of machinery.
"i am sorry to hear that." manfred took out his handkerchief and touched his chin and forehead. "i have the weekly reports." hurry capitulated and went across to the desk. this was business. he sat down and read quickly. his questions were abrupt, cutting and instantly answered, but manfred's handkerchief was busy now, swabbing and dabbing. twice he removed his spectacles and wiped steam from the lenses.
"can i turn the air-conditioning down a little, grandfather?"
"you touch it and i'll kick your arse," said hurry without looking up.
another five minutes and manfred steyner stood up suddenly.
"excuse me, grandfather." and he shot across the office and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom suite. hurry cocked his head to listen, and when he heard the taps hiss he grinned happily. the air-conditioning was the only method he had discovered of disconcerting
manfred steyner, and for ten years he had been experimenting with various techniques.
"don't use all the soap," he shouted gleefully. "you are the one always on about office expenses!" it did not seem ludicrous to hurry that one of the richest and most influential men in africa should devote so much time and energy to baiting his personal assistant.
at eleven o'clock manfred steyner gathered his papers and began packing them carefully in his monogrammed pigskin briefcase.
"about the appointment of a new general manager for the sander ditch to replace mr. lemmer. you will recall my memo regarding the_ appointment of younger men to key positions-"
"never read the-bloody thing," lied hurry hirschfeld.
they both knew he read everything, and remembered it.
"well-" manfred went on to enlarge his thesis for a minute, then ended, "in view of this, my department, myself concurring entirely, urges the appointment of rodney barry ironsides, the present underground manager, to the position. i hoped that you would initial the recommendation and we can put it through at friday's meeting."
dexterously manfred slid the yellow memo in front of hurry hirschfeld, unscrewed the cap of his pen and offered it to him. hurry picked the memo up between thumb and forefinger as though it were someone's dirty handkerchief and dropped it into the waste-paper bin.
"do you wish me to tell you in detail what you and your planning department can do?" he asked.
"grandfather," manfred admonished him mildly, "you cannot run the company as though you were a robber baron. you cannot ignore the team of highly trained men who are your advisers."
"i've run it that way for fifty years. you show me who's going to change that." hurry leaned back in his chair with vast satisfaction and fished a powerful-looking cigar out of his inner pocket.
"grandfather, that cigar! the doctor said-" "and i said fred plummer gets the job as manager of the sander ditch."
"he goes on pension next year," protested manfred ste
yner.
"yes, hurry nodded. "but how does that alter the position?"
"he's an old dodderers" manfred tried again, there was a desperate edge to his voice. he had not anticipated one of the old man's whims cutting across his plans.
"he's twelve years younger than i am," growled hurry ominously.
"how's that make him an old dodderer?"
now that the weekend was over, rod found the apartment oppressive, and he longed to get out of it.
he shaved, standing naked before the mirror, and he caught a whiff of the reeking ashtrays and half-empty glasses in the lounge. the char would have her customary monday morning greeting when she came in later today. from louis botha avenue the traffic noise was starting to build up and he glanced at his watch six o'clock in the morning. a good time to examine your soul, he decided, and leaned forward to watch his own eyes in the mirror.
"you're too old for this type of living," he told himself seriously.
"you've had four years of it now, four years since the divorce, and that's about enough. it would be nice now to go to bed with the same woman on two consecutive nights." he rinsed his razor, and turned on the taps in the shower cabinet.
"might even be able to afford it, if our boy manfred delivers the goods." rod had not allowed himself to believe too implicitly in manfred steyner's promise; but during the whole of these last two days the excitement had been there beneath the cynicism.
he stepped into the shower and soaped himself, then turned the cold tap full on. gasping he shut it off and reached for his towel.
still drying himself, he went through and stood at the foot of the bed; as he towelled himself he examined the girl who lay among the tousled sheets.
she was tanned dark toffee brown so she appeared to be dressed in white transparent bra and panties where the skin was untouched by the sun.
her hair was a blonde-gold flurry across her face and the pillow, at odds with the jet black triangle of body hair. her lips in sleep were fixed in a soft pink pout, and she looked disquietingly young.
rod had to make a conscious effort to remember her name, she was not the companion with whom he had begun the weekend.
"lucille," he said, sitting down beside her. "wake up.
time to roll." she opened her eyes.
"good morning," he said and kissed her gently.
"mmm." she blinked. "what time is it? i don't want to get fired." "six," he told her.
"oh, good. plenty of time." and she rolled over and snuggled down into the sheets.
"like hell." he slapped her bottom lightly. "move, girl, can you cook?"
"no-" she lifted her head. "what's your name again?" she asked.
"rod," he told her.
"that's right. piston rod," she giggled. "what a way to die!
are you sure you aren't powered by steam?" "how old are you? "he asked.
"nineteen. how old are you?"
"thirty-eight."
"daddy, you're vintage!" she told him vehemently.
"yes, sometimes i feel that way." he stood up. "let's go."
"you go. i'll lock up when i leave." "no sale," he said, the last one he had left in the flat had cleaned it out groceries, liquor, glasses, towels, even the ashtrays. "five minutes to dress. "fortunately she lived on his way. she directed him to a run-down block of flats under the mine dumps at booysens.
"i'm putting three blind sisters through school. you want to help?" she asked as he parked the maserati.
"sure." he eased a five-rand note out of his wallet and handed it to her.
"ta muchly." and she slipped out of the red leather seat, closed the door and walked away. she did not look back before she disappeared into the block, and rod felt an unaccountable wave of loneliness wash over him. it was so intense that he sat quiescent for a full minute before he could throw it off, then he hit the gears and screeched away from the kerb.
"my little five-rand friend," he said. "she really cares!" he drove fast, so that as he topped the kraalkop ridge the shadows were still long, and the dew lay silver on the grass. he pulled the maserati into a lay by and climbed out.
leaning against the bonnet he lit a cigarette, grimacing at the taste, and looked down at the valley.
there was no natural surface indication of the immense treasure house that lay below. it was like any of the other countless grassy plains of the transvaal. in the centre stood the town of kitchenerville, which for half a century had rejoiced in the fact that lord kitchener had camped one night here in pursuit of the wily boer: a collection of three dozen buildings which had expanded miraculously into three thousand, around a magnificent town hall and shopping complex. dressed in public lawns and gardens, wide streets and bright new houses, all of it paid for by the mining houses whose lease areas converged on the town.
out of the bleak veld surrounding the town their head gears stood like colossal monuments to the gold hunger of man. around the head gears clustered the plants and workshops. there were fourteen head gears in the valley.
the field was divided into five lease areas, following the original farm titles, and was mined by five separate companies.
thornfontein gold mining, blaauberg gold mining, west tweefontein mining, deep gold levels, and the sander ditch gold mining company.
it was to this last that rod naturally directed his attention.
"you beauty, he whispered, for in his eyes the mountainous dumps of blue rock beside the shafts were truly beautiful.
the complex but carefully thought out pattern of the works buildings, even the sulphur-yellow acres of the slimes dam, had a functional beauty.
"get it for me, manfred," he spoke aloud. "i want it. i want it badly." on the twenty-eight square miles of the sander ditch's property lived 14,000 human beings, 12,000 of them were bantu who had been recruited from all over southern africa. they lived in the multi-storied hostels near the shaft heads, and each day they went down through two small holes in the ground to depths that were scarcely credible, and came up again out of those same two holes.
12,000 men down, 12,000 up. that was not all: out of those two same holes came 10,000 tons of rock daily, and down them went timber and tools and piping and explosive, ton upon ton of material and equipment.
it was an undertaking that must evoke pride in the men who accomplished it.
rod glanced at his watch, 7.35 a.m they were down already, all 12,000 of them. they had started going down at three-thirty that morning and now it was accomplished.
the shift was in. the sander ditch was breaking rock, and bringing the stuff out.
rod grinned happily. his loneliness and depression of an hour ago were gone, swallowed up in the immensity of his involvement. he watched the massive wheels of the head gears spinning, stopping briefly, and then spinning again.
each of those shafts had cost fifty million rand, the surface plant and works another fifty million. the sander ditch represented an investment of 150 million rand, 220 million dollars. it was big, and it would be his.
rod flicked away the butt of his cigarette. as he drove down the ridge, his eyes moved eastward down the valley.
all mining activity ceased abruptly along an imaginary north-south line, drawn arbitarily across the open grassland.
there was no surface indication why this should be so, but the reason was deep down.
on that line ran a geological freak, a dyke, a wall of hard serpentine rock that had been named "the big dipper. it cut through the field like an axe stroke, and beyond it was bad ground. the gold reef existed in the bad ground, they knew this; but not one of the five companies had gone after it. they had prospected it tentatively and then shied away from it, for the boreholes that they sank were frightening in their inconsistency.
a big percentage of the sander ditch lease area lay on the far side of the dipper, and there was a diamond-drilling team working there now.
they had already completed five holes.
rod could remember accurately the results.
sd no. 2: abandoned in dry hole at 5,250 feet.
sd no. 3: intersected carbon leader reef at 6,600 feet.
first deflection. 6,212-inch penny-weights.
second deflection. 2,"4-inch penny-weights.
sd no. 4. abandoned in attensian water at 3500 feet.
sd no. 5. intersected carbon leader at 8116 feet.
and they were drilling the deflections on that one now.
Wilbur Smith - Gold Mine Page 4