In his new livery. All the way to the Exchange his back was stiff with

protest and neither of them spoke. Sean glared at the doorman of the

Exchange, drank four brandies during the morning rode back to his office

again at noon scowling at Mbejane's -still protesting back, shouted at

Johnson, snapped at the bank manager, routed the representative from

Brooke Bros. and drove out to the Candy Deep in a high old rage. But

Mbejane's silence was impenetrable and Sean couldn't re-open the

argument without sacrifice of pride. He burst into the new

administrative building of the Candy Deep and threw the staff into

confusion.

Where's Mr du Toit? he roared. He's down the Number Three shaft, Mr

Courtney. What the hell is he doing down there? He's supposed to be

waiting for me here. He didn't expect you for another hour, sir. Well,

get me some overalls and a mining helmet, don't just stand there. He

clapped the tin hat on his head and stamped his heavy gumboots across to

the Number Three shaft. The skip dropped him smoothly five hundred feet

Into the earth and he climbed out at the tenth level. Where's Mr du

Toit! he demanded of the shift boss at the lift station. He's up at

the face, sir. The floor of the drive was rough and muddy; his gumboots

squelched as he set off down the tunnel. His carbide lamp lit the uneven

rock walls with a flat white light and he felt himself starting to

sweat. Two natives pushing a cocopan back along the railway lines

forced him to flatten himself against one wall to allow them to pass and

while he waited he felt inside his overalls for his cigar case. As he

pulled it out it slipped from his hand and plunked into the mud. The

cocopan was gone by that time so he stooped to pick up the case. His

ear came within an inch of the wall and a puzzled expression replaced

his frown of annoyance. The rock was squeaking. He laid his ear

against it. It sounded like someone grinding his teeth. He listened to

it for a while trying to guess the cause; it wasn't the echo of shovels

or drills, it wasn't water. He walked another thirty yards or so down

the drive and listened again.

Not so loud here but now the grinding noise was punctuated with an

occasional metallic snap like the breaking of a knife blade. Strange,

very strange; he had never heard anything like it before. He walked on

down the drive, his bad mood lost in his preoccupation with this new

problem. Before he reached the face he met Francois. Hello, Mr

Courtney. Sean had long since given up trying to stop Francois calling

him that. Gott, I'm sorry I wasn't there to meet you. I thought you

were coming at three. That's all right, Francois, how are you? My

rheumatism's been giving me blazes, Mr Courtney, but otherwise I'm all

right. How's Mr Charleywood? He's fine. Sean couldn't restrain his

curiosity any longer. Tell me something, Franz, just now I put my ear

against the wall of the drive and I heard an odd noise, I couldn't make

out what it was. What kind of noise? A sort of grinding, like, like .

. . I Sean searched for words to describe it, like two pieces of glass

being rubbed together. Francois's eyes flew wide open and then began to

bulge, the colour of his face changed to grey and he caught Sean's arm.

, whererBack along the drive.

The breath jammed in Francois's throat and he struggled to speak through

it, shaking Sean's arm desperately. Cave-in! he croaked. Cave-in,

man!

He started to run but Sean grabbed him. Francois struggled wildly.

Francois, how many men up at the face? Cave-in. Francois's voice was

now hysterically shrill. Cave-in. He broke Sean's grip and raced away

towards the lift station, the mud flying from his gumboots. His terror

infected Sean and he ran a dozen paces after Francois before he stopped

himself. For precious seconds he wavered with fear slithering round

like a reptile in his stomach; go back to call the others and perhaps

die with them or follow Francois and live. Then the fear in his belly

found a mate, a thing just as slimy and cold; its name was shame, and

shame it was that drove him back towards the face. There were five

blacks and a white man there, bare-chested and shiny with sweat in the

heat. Sean shouted those two words at them and they reacted the way

bathers do when someone on the beach shouts shark. The same moment of

paralysed horror, then the panic. They came stampeding back along the

tunnel. Seanran with them, the mud sucked at Ins heavy boots and his

legs were weak with easy living and riding in carriages. One by one the

others passed him.

"Wait for me, he wanted to scream. Wait for me. He slipped on the

greasy footing, scraping his shoulder onthe the rough wall as he fell,

and dragged himself up again, mud plastered in his beard, the blood

burning in his ears.

Alone now he blundered on down the tunnel. With a crack like a rifle

shot one of the thick shoring timbers broke under the pressure of the

moving rock and dust smoked from the roof of the tunnel in front of him.

He staggered on and all around him the earth was talking, groaning,

protesting, with little muffled shrieks. The timbers joined in again,

crackling and snapping, and as slowly as a theatre curtain the rock

sagged down from above him.

The tunnel was thick with dust that smothered the beam of his lamp and

rasped his throat. He knew then that he wasn't going to make it but he

ran on with the loose rock starting to fall about him. A lump hit his

mining helmet and jarred him so that he nearly fell. Blinded by the

swirling dust fog he crashed at full run into the abandoned cocopan that

blocked the tunnel, he sprawled over the metal body of the trolley with

his thighs bruised from the collision. Now I'm finished, he thought,

but instinctively he pulled himself up and started to grope his way

around the cocopan to continue his flight. With a roar the tunnel in

front of him collapsed. He dropped on his knees and crawled between the

wheels of the COCOPan, wriggling under the sturdy steel body just an

instant before the roof above him collapsed also. The noise of the fall

around him seemed to last for ever, but then it was over and the

rustling and grating of the rock as it settled down was almost silence

in comparison. His lamp was lost and the darkness pressed as heavily on

him as the earth squeezed down on his tiny shelter. The air was solid

with dust and he coughed; he coughed until his chest ached and he tasted

salty blood in his mouth. There was hardly room to move, the steel body

of the trolley was six inches above him, but he struggled until he

managed to open the front of his overalls and tear a piece off the tail

of his shirt. He held the silk like a surgical mask across his mouth

and nose.

It strained the dust out of the aft so he could breathe. The dust

settled; his coughing slowed and finally stopped. He felt surprise that

he was still alive and cautiously he started exploring. He tried to

straighten out his legs but his feet touched rock. He felt with his

hands, six inches of head room and perhaps twelve inches on either side,

warm mud underneath him and rock and steel all around.

He took off his helmet and used it as a pillow. He was in a steel

coffin buried five hundred feet deep, He felt the first flutter of

panic. Keep your mind busy, think of something, think of anything but

the rock around you, count your assets, he told himself. He started to

search his pockets, moving with difficulty in the cramped space. One

silver cigar case with two Havanas. He laid it down next to him. One

box of matches, wet. He placed it on top of the case. One pocket

watch. One handkerchief, Irish linen, monogrammed. One comb,

tortoishell, a man is judged by his appearance. He started to comb his

beard but found immediately that though this occupied his hands it left

his mind free. He put the comb down next to his matches. Twenty-five

pounds in gold sovereigns - He counted them carefully, yes, twenty-five.