The Dark of the Sun - Smith Wilbur (книги полные версии бесплатно без регистрации txt) 📗
gesture of helplessness.
Bruce studied the rent in the boiler. The metal was torn open like the
petals of a flower. He knew it had been a forlorn request.
"Very well. Thank you." He turned to Ruffy. "We'll have to carry
everything back to the convoy. Another day wasted."
"It's a long walk," Ruffy agreed. "Better get started."
"How much food have we?"
"Not too much. We've been feeding a lot of extra mouths, and we sent a
lot out to the mission."
"How much?"
"About two more days."
"That should get us to Elisabethville."
"Boss, you want to carry everything to the lorries?
Searchlights, ammunition, blankets - all of it?" Bruce paused for a
moment. "I think so. We may need it."
"It's going to take the rest of the day."
"Yes," agreed Bruce. Ruffy walked back along the train but Bruce called
after him.
"Ruffy!"
"Boss?"
"Don't forget the beer." Ruffy's black moon of a face split laterally
into a grin.
"You think we should take it?"
"Why not?" Bruce laughed.
"Man, you talked me right into it." And the night was almost on them
before the last of the equipment had been carried back from the
Abandoned train to the convoy and loaded into the trucks.
Time is a slippery thing, even more so than wealth. No bank vault can
hold it for you, this precious stuff which we spend in such prodigal
fashion on the trivialities. By the time we have slept and eaten and
moved from one place to the next there is such a small percentage left
for the real business of living.
Bruce felt futile resentment as he always did when he thought about it.
And if you discount the time spent at an office desk, then how much is
there left? Half of one day a week, that's how much the average man
lives! That's how far short of our potential is the actuality of
existence.
Take it further than that: we are capable of using only a fraction of
our physical and mental strength. Only under hypnosis are we able to
exert more than a tenth of what is in us. So divide that half of one day
a week by ten, and the rest is waste! Sickening waste!
"Ruffy, have you detailed sentries for tonight?" Bruce barked at him.
"Not yet. I was just-"
"Well, do it, and do it quickly." Ruffy looked at Bruce in speculation
and through his anger Bruce felt a qualm of regret that he had selected
that mountain of energy on which to vent his frustration.
"Where the hell is Hendry?" he snapped.
Without speaking Ruffy pointed to a group of men round one of the
trucks at the rear of the convoy and Bruce left him.
Suddenly consumed with impatience Bruce fell upon his men.
Shouting at them, scattering them to a dozen different tasks. He walked
along the convoy making sure that his instructions were being
carried out to the letter; checking the siting of the Brens and the
searchlights, making sure that the single small cooking fire was
screened from Baluba eyes, stopping to watch the refuelling of the
trucks and the running maintenance he had ordered. Men avoided catching
his eye and bent to their tasks with studied application.
There were no raised voices or sounds of laughter in the camp.
Again Bruce had decided against a night journey. The temptation itched
within him, but the exhaustion of those gendarmes who had not slept
since the previous morning and the danger of travelling in the dark he
could not ignore.
"We'll leave as soon as it's light tomorrow," Bruce told Ruffy.
"Okay, boss," Ruffy nodded, and then soothingly, "you're tired.
Food's nearly ready, then you get some sleep." Bruce glared at him,
opening his mouth to snarl a retort, and then closed it again. He turned
and strode out of the camp into the forest.
He found a fallen tree, sat down and lit a cigarette. It was dark now
and there were only a few stars among the rain clouds that blackened the
sky. He could hear the faint sounds from the camp but there were no
lights - the way he had ordered it.
The fact that his anger had no focal point inflamed it rather than
quenched it. It ranged restlessly until at last it found a target, -
himself. He recognized the brooding undirected depression that was
descending upon him. It was a thing he had not experienced for a long
time, nearly two years. Not since the wreck of his marriage and the loss
of his children. Not since he had stifled all emotion and trained
himself not to participate in the life around him.
But now his barrier was gone, there was no sheltered harbour from
the storm surf and he would have to ride it out.
The anger was gone now. At least anger had heat but this other thing was
cold; icy waves of it broke over him, and he was small and insignificant
in the grip of it.
His mind turned to his children and the loneliness howled round him like
a winter wind from the south. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers
against the lids. Their faces formed in the eye of his mind.
Christine with pink fat legs under her frilly skirt, and the face of a
thoughtful cherub, below soft hair cropped like a page boy.
"I love you best of all," she said with much seriousness, holding his
face with small hands only a little sticky with ice cream.
Simon, a miniature reproduction of Bruce even to the nose. Scabs on the
knees and dirt on the face. No demonstrations of affection from him, but
in its place something much better, a companionship far beyond his six
years.
Long discussions on everything from religion, "Why didn't Jesus used to
shave?" to politics, "When are you going to be prime minister, Dad?" And
the loneliness was a tangible thing now, like the coils of a reptile
squeezing his chest. Bruce ground out the cigarette beneath his heel and
tried to find refuge in his hatred for the woman who had been his wife.
The woman who had taken them from him.
But his hatred was a cold thing also, dead ash with a stale taste.
For he knew that the blame was not all hers. It was another of his
failures; perhaps if I had tried harder, perhaps if I had left some of
the cruel things unsaid, perhaps - yes, it might have been, and perhaps
and maybe. But it was not. It was over and finished and now I am alone.
There is no worse condition; no state beyond loneliness. It is the waste
land and the desolation.
Something moved near him in the night, a soft rustle of grass, a
presence felt rather than seen. And Bruce stiffened.
His right hand closed over his rifle. He brought it up slowly, his eyes
straining into the darkness.
The movement again, closer now. A twig popped underfoot. Bruce slowly
trained his rifle round to cover it, pressure on the trigger and his
thumb on the safety. Stupid to have wandered away from the camp; asking
for it, and now he had got it. Baluba tribesmen! He could see the figure
now in the dimness of starlight, stealthily moving across his front. How
many of them, he wondered. If I hit this one, there could be a dozen
others with him. Have to take a chance. One quick
burst and then run for it. A hundred yards to the camp, about an even
chance. The figure was stationary now, standing listening. Bruce could
see the outline of the head - no helmet, can't be one of us. He raised
