Kapitel 16: Chapter 16
The man uttered a roar. He was a big man, and he whirled round, made a leap, and hurled himself upon the other, burying his nails in his face, with the most frightful words which could fall from a man's mouth. These insults, poured forth in a voice roughened by work and exhaustion, accompanied the cruel blows they now dealt each other. A broad back-handed sweep took one of them out, and the victor, a short, densely-build Indian, stood heavily-breathing above the prone form of his victim. He scrambled back two paces and seemed to fix his eyes on the ground.
At the noise produced, overseers had ran out in throngs, other labourers had halted, and collected, in a large circle around the duo.
The first man recovered, and from the ground, striking out with feet and fists, barehanded, howling with humiliation, and livid with wrath, sprang up and spat upon the Indian. The latter took a swing and hit the other in the mouth with a left. He swung at him again and the big man hooked him hard to the right eye twice. He grabbed hold of the Indian's shirt, which tore when he dug the man in the belly hard with his right and then pushed him away and slapped him hard across the face backhanded with his left.
At once a woman emerged vivaciously from the crowd, seized the big native man on the back of the head by his hair, and roared to him: "kutosha!"
Enough.
The man raised his head, furious, not halted in the least but distracted, hair coming away; the fierce twist of his mouth died away at seeing Dr Mary Graves, and two men of tall stature: Bates and Gerbrandy, standing behind her. His eyes became glassy; he turned pale instead of livid, and he trembled with a quiver of terror.
❧
"We cannot have them fighting, Gerbrandy." Mary stood, silent fury in the straightness of her back, looking at where the broad Frisian was employed by the table in the middle of the tent that served as headquarters for engineering. The man seemed preoccupied, and did not meet her gaze. Bates stood a while back. He was leaning heavily on his cane. Mary watched the Frisian. "What if Denham-Moore and Grigg had gotten here early and seen the infighting? Add the threat of the insurgents and this whole operation would have been deemed an unnecessary risk."
It was hot. Sweat was gathering at her hairline and along her back, and moisture trickled down the side of her face. Gerbrandy bore it no better. He was red and his brows were damp and he stank. His dirty linen shirt was pulled adroit. His upper lip and brows were wet with moisture, and his forearms were shining; the hair matted to the skin.
Gerbrandy was breathing only on a surface pitch. A failing attempt to keep it level. The tendons in his throat stood taught with tension, and Gerbrandy worked his jaw back and forth and swallowed. He would not meet her gaze.
"There's unrest." He bit out. "There's always been unrest. This is no different from yesterday. Don't make this out to be more than it is."
"If we trivialise—"
"These are my workers, Graves, my project. You will not interfere." He now raised his head. His eyes were lined with something dangerous and primal, his bulk prepped for a fight. A massive, silent threat before charging.
Mary watched him posture and ground her teeth.
She spoke acidly and slowly, as if speaking to a slow-witted child: "I will if it could directly influence the succes of my operation. And since you cannot guarantee it, I will do so myself until Grigg gets here." She did not tremble, but inwardly those great vindictive fires were at war against her composure. Her pride rioted, and the fury within her chest readied itself to charge.
Gerbrandy reared up and bellowed:
"You are here as a courtesy! Don't make me get you pulled from your contract with the institute, Graves. I guarantee you, I will make it an unnecessarily painful process—"
"You don't have that kind of authority, Gerbrandy. I am here on the orders of your patron! Do not forget that!" Mary unconsciously drew herself higher. The man looked away. "Separate them, Gerbrandy. I do not care how."
The man sneered and threw his arms up.
"And do not worry," Mary mocked, patronising and ugly. "If this goes south, all responsibility lies with me." That said, Mary Graves took herself off, or, to describe it more exactly, charged away in the direction whence she had come with an assault like that of an escaped bull.
The unsteady fall of Bates's tread fell into pace on the gravel underground, broken up by the tap of the hardwood cane.
"Weren't your dad a diplomat?" The man called out. The soaring blood behind Graves's temples shrieked.
"I don't need elegant. I need effective." Mary halted and turned, gearing herself back up. "You disapprove?"
"Old dog that I am, I'm questioning his relevance."
The pulse in her ears went quiet. She regarded him. Bates hadn't even flinched. Mary Graves knew two things about Joseph Bates: he hated pity and he seldom said things he actually meant. But he had meant this and she'd seen it in his eyes.
"What would you have me do?" She spoke, her voice now carefully level.
"Henderson told me of your decision."
"I know it's ugly but I'm not the worst of them."
Bates ignored that and continued: "Kids ever held a gun?" He leant heavily on his cane. "Could've send Henderson."
"Could have." She admitted, tersely. "Should have."
Bates studied her. "Don't be too hard on him. Or yourself for that matter," he turned to regard the wadis, "just a few days. Then we'll have our buffer."
"Nairobi?"
"Mombasa. Two days."
"Two days."
"Might get some sunshine in the meantime?" He tilted his head back against the light.
"What does McBryne got?"
"Catfish."
"Bottom feeders. My favourite."
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein