The old man grinned. "I'll have more to say on that subject than you think, young fellow. What's your name?" The voice coming from the figure white with rock-dust was a powerful rasp, and to Jake's surprise it sounded British. His only experience with British voices was from the movies, but still he didn't think he could be mistaken.
"My name's Jake Rezner. I work for the CCC."
The other blinked at him almost benevolently. "Ah yes, you're in the thirties."
Jake blinked. "In the what?"
"In the decade of the thirties—that's all right. You're the people who put in trails and bridges." The tone of the last sentence was contemptuous.
"We put in only one bridge," Jake said, momentarily unable to think of any better comeback.
The old man was surveying Jake with what appeared to be increasing disdain. "And now you've come to stay with us, have you?"
Jake almost laughed. "Stay with you? No, I'm not planning to move in."
The other really did laugh at that, and the sound was harsh. "If you still don't know, having been enticed along this far…"
"If I still don't know what?"
Instead of answering that question, the old man, with the child's lunch box still tucked under his arm, shook his head pityingly and turned to Camilla.
"So," he remarked to her, "you've not told this one very much as yet. I suppose he's just now arrived?"
Camilla, somewhat to Jake's surprise, was just standing there with her arms down at her sides, her small fists clenched. Without looking directly at either man, she nodded fiercely in reply, as if for some reason she did not trust herself to speak.
Jake, turning back to the old man, trying to put him at ease so it wouldn't become necessary to punch him out, said tolerantly: "Don't worry, I'm not staying."
"I'm not worried." The other, irritated rather than soothed by tolerance, glared at Jake from under bushy, white-dusted brows. "Of course you're staying." It was a statement of fact, not hospitality. "On that point you no longer have a choice. What I'm interested in right now is whether you're going to be worth anything as a worker."
"I tell you I'm not… a worker?" Jake's tone changed in the middle of the sentence. It actually sounded like the old guy was offering him a job.
The elder once more emitted his harsh chuckle. "I said worker. There's a lot of work to be done here, important jobs, some of them too heavy for a girl—for this one at any rate—and I don't have time to do them all myself. I'm much too busy." His eyes judged Jake's physique. "A strong young man who's been building trails and bridges ought to be good with rocks. Ought to be able to break them as instructed, and to move them carefully."
The suggestion of a real job changed everything. Jake, like everyone else he knew in the CCC, would have stopped whatever else he was doing, at almost any time, to listen to a job offer. Had there been regular jobs available instead of a Depression, none of them would have been living in tents, breaking rocks and building roads on a make-work government project a thousand miles from home and at least a hundred from civilization. And thank God, the CCC wasn't quite like the army; if a better offer came along you could put down your tools and quit and walk away without being arrested.
"I'm a good worker," Jake said after a pause. His voice now had a different tone, serious and respectful. Still, with his food and shelter already being taken care of by Uncle Sam, he could afford to be a little choosy. "What's the job, and what does it pay?"
The old man looked from Jake to Camilla, leered at her, and then repeated his coarse laugh. Somehow to Jake it did not seem to go with his British voice. "You want money as well?"
Jake could feel his face getting red. "Money, of course I want money. I don't work without pay."
"Oh, do you not? And if I were to pay you money, where do you think you'd spend it?"
Jake, supposing the old man was trying to make some kind of joke, shook his head, and gave a puzzled little laugh. "Even if I did stay here for a while, I figure I'd get into town eventually."
"It's not a matter of 'if,' young fellow. You're here and here you'll stay. Unless and until I decide that you're not worth your keep."
"Until you decide?"
Edgar Tyrrell made soothing noises, as if to a child or an animal, and calming motions with the hand that did not hold the lunch box. "I'll pay you, I'll pay you, never fear. What would you say to—five dollars a day?"
Jake relaxed a little. "That's all right."
"And some day before you die I may even let you go... but that isn't likely, now you've seen my operation." Folding his arms, the elder stared athim judicially.
"What do you mean, you may let me go? What the hell are you talking about?"
No answer,
Jake locked eyes with the old man for a few moments; it was a grim and confident glare that Jake faced, and if he hadn't been two or three sizes bigger and maybe forty years younger, it might have frightened him. Yes, the old guy was crazy. No use talking to a crazy man. Too bad, five dollars a day would have been good pay—but Jake wasn't going to try working for a lunatic. No job here. No wonder Camilla wanted out.
Jake sighed, and stood up a little straighter. He looked at Camilla, feeling sorry for her. She avoided his gaze. Yes, no wonder she was frightened, and wanted to get away.
He said: "I'm going, then. You coming with me, kid? I think you'd better."
She still looked timid. Standing in the shade, she held her hat in front of her in both hands, and kept turning it round and round. Her voice when she finally spoke was small. "Jake? I'm sorry, you can't go. You really can't."
"Who says I can't?"
No one answered him. "Watch and see," Jake added. "I think you better come with me," he told the girl in a softer voice. Only now did he start to think about the complications that would result if Camilla did come with him. There was nowhere to take her but the camp, and Jake couldn't really predict what would happen at camp tomorrow if he showed up with a good-looking redhead in tow, after being AWOL all night—but it would be interesting. She sure as hell wasn't going to be allowed to move into camp with him. His days with the CCC would probably be over, and he'd have no job at all. But right now he thought it would be worth it.
Camilla hesitated only for a moment, then, rather to Jake's surprise, she said: "All right." Somehow, given her sudden timidity as soon as the old man appeared, he'd expected her to choose staying here with a sure meal ticket, even if Mr. Tyrrell was more than somewhat cracked.
Jake looked at the old man to see how he was taking this defection. There seemed to be no need to worry. The rock-dusty figure stood with its arms folded, regarding the two young people with a gaze rather more amused than angry.
So it didn't look like there was going to be any real trouble. Jake relaxed a little. "Hey," he asked the old man, gesturing: "Where'd you get these lights?" The lamps on their poles really looked like something out of Buck Rogers, or almost. When Jake listened for the sound of the generator, he thought maybe he could hear it droning in the background, barely audible above the steady noise of waterfall and rapids.
"Somewhere beyond the nineties," the old man said. "I couldn't be quite sure."
"Huh?"
The old guy didn't bother trying to explain. Instead he turned back into his quarry-cave, returning his attention to whatever strange tasks he needed the lights to help him with. Standing among the strange white shapes that his tools had called forth from the deep rocks, the old man picked up a steel chisel and a hammer, and looked ready to carve away some more.
Camilla, talking to Jake and sounding resigned rather than eager, repeated: "I'm ready."
Tyrrell turned to look at her over his shoulder. "Better take a gun," he suggested. "Just in case."