A Clearing in the forest by Gloria Whelan Read Free Book Online Page A

given him a funny feeling—like a rug had been pulled out from under his feet. The racket coming from all sides was ear-splitting; he wondered if he would get used to it. Diesel engines rattled away. Gears meshed and brakes screeched as enormous trailers carrying lengths of casing pulled in and out of the rutted driveway.
    Two house trailers had been set up on the edge of the location. The trailer where the geologist worked was marked “analytical.” Outside its door was a little heap of tagged bags containing cuttings from the well. The cuttings were cores of soil and rock reamed out of the ground by a special drill and shipped by the geologist all the way to Texas. There they were examined by computers and a determination was made as to the likelihood of finding oil.
    Wilson hoped that later on there would be a chance to talk to the geologist and find out what you had to do to get a job like his. Wilson was carrying some fossils in his pocket just in case the subject came up, though he didn’t see how it would. Hell, the man would think he was flaky!
    Wishing he hadn’t worn his good boots, he waded through soft mud to a trailer marked “office” and knocked on the door. He was worried about the lie he’d told the company about substituting on Ron’s rig. Looking around the location, he realized how unprepared he was. If they told him to do something, he would stand there like a dummy, not knowing which way to turn.
    The trailer door was opened by a slim man with a blond beard and a weary expression. “You Catchner? Wipe your feet good and come on in.”
    Inside the trailer Wilson saw that the proper location for everything was designated by neatly labeled plastic strips of the kind you punched on a tape. There was a pegboard on the wall, hung with tools. A hammer rested beneath its label; pliers, screwdrivers—everything was in its place. Over the stove was a label that read “potholder” and another that said “measuring cup.” Both were where they should be. He looked around to see labels on drawers and boxes, on the door into the toilet, next to the light switches. Stealing a look at the man who had seated himself behind a table, Wilson had a crazy notion he might see labels all over his face: “eyes,” “nose,” “ears.”
    â€œMy name’s Pete.” The man yawned deeply, his whole face turning into mouth. “I got your papers here somewheres.” He handled a folder, but didn’t open it. “They say you had some experience? You don’t look like you had much experience of any kind.” He gave Wilson a gloomy smile.
    â€œI helped my brother-in-law out some. He’s with the rig over on Sandy Lake Road.” Since the man didn’t seem to care too much one way or the other, Wilson felt relieved to be edging nearer to the truth.
    â€œI hear they went down 7,000 feet over there and got themselves a real stink hole. You can smell the sour gas a couple miles away. They’re going to get plenty of heat from the people around them, have to burn it off, probably.” The man put his head in his hands and seemed to fall asleep for a few seconds. He stretched and rubbed his eyes.
    â€œWell, let’s get down to business. I’m going to tell you in no uncertain terms we stick to the rules here. My crew has a good safety record and I want to keep it that way. This ain’t no playground. Hard hats stay on when you’re on the rig and I mean all the time. Another thing, if I see a cigarette out there, the guy whose smoking it gets run off on the spot. I got five more months in this God-forsaken country before I get transferred and I don’t want nothing going wrong before I get away.”
    â€œPete?” Wilson had been thinking about something since the day he had watched Ron climb up the derrick and had experienced a funny feeling in his stomach. “I don’t know if it makes any