The Outcasts by Stephen Becker Read Free Book Online Page B

darting.
    He stepped out of the Land-Rover and stretched beneath the molten sun, and was happier than he had ever been before.
    â€œThis is Ramesh,” Philips said. “Mister Bernard Morrison.”
    Ramesh was surely sixty, slight and wiry, barefoot. His khaki shirt was fresh and carefully buttoned, which marked him, Morrison supposed, as foreman. That, and the great silvery wrist-watch with its complication of dials and sweeps. Ramesh had a large nose and large ears, sleepy liquid brown eyes and long black hair salted gray. He was a shade less dark than Philips. Palms together, he bowed, and then held forth his right hand. “Mister Morrison,” he said softly. “Welcome to the works. I hope you have approved of the road.” His voice was like his eyes, deep and liquid and sleepy.
    â€œI have. The men must have worked well.”
    â€œYes. It took almost two years.” His tone was judicious, as though he were considering for the first time the quality of his men’s work. “Mister Van Alstyne left them to me, you see. We lost only one. He fell off the lorry on a Saturday night, going to the capital, and broke his head. They work well because the job here is a good one to have. There are many unemployed, as you know.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat is because the big city attracts so many, but we have no money for capital expenditures, for great projects. Yet no one now wishes to farm. Only my own people, who are more industrious than most. The sense of exile, you understand. In the big city there is not sufficient work, and most of the newcomers become a burden to their relatives, who cannot turn them away. We have great troubles, as you know.”
    â€œMister Morrison needs rest,” Philips said lightly. “I think you can tell him later about our history and geography and economics.”
    â€œYes, yes. You must forgive me.” They walked toward the trailers. The crew had been shown their new boss, and nodded and waved now and melted into the shade. The man in the scarlet fez, a giant, stood longer than the others and stared at Morrison.
    â€œWhere do they sleep?”
    Ramesh waved carelessly. “Back under the trees we have hammocks. Also the cooking truck. Are you hungry?”
    â€œNo. Thirsty.”
    â€œAh, yes. Here we are. This is your home and office, Mister Morrison.”
    At first he could see nothing; after the glare of the road his home-and-office was a lightless cave. Then he made out a bed, cabinets, a hinged desk-top. “Fine. Hot, though.”
    â€œYes,” Philips said. “An oven, I am afraid.”
    â€œDamn and blahst,” Ramesh said in obvious excitement. “Wait,” and left them.
    â€œI hope I can sleep in this thing. Let’s get out.”
    â€œYes. By noontime the temperature will rise to about one hundred and ten degrees.”
    Morrison grimaced. “Is there a stream?”
    â€œA quarter-mile off. Down that slope.”
    â€œGood. We can wallow.”
    â€œYes. We all do. Um: I have a suggestion.” Philips scratched his head, smiling, promising mischief.
    â€œMake it.”
    â€œWould you like a bottle of beer?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œFour hours ago you took the pledge.”
    â€œBeer is medicine. Where do you keep it?”
    â€œWell, we have a generator. So we have a small fridge.”
    Ramesh scuttled up. “Here you are, sir. Welcome.” He handed Morrison a broad straw fan with a three-inch fringe of whiskers. Horsehair. “The fan will cool you. The hairs are to whisk flies. Welcome, welcome.” He stepped back and made a leg like the Lord Mayor of London.
    â€œThe flies can be bad,” Philips said. “We call them lion flies. They raise great welts that itch fiercely. We also have insect repellent.”
    â€œDo they …” Morrison hesitated, and then met his eye: “Do they bother everybody?”
    â€œThey bother all men