The bloody fool, he growled. With his hunter's vision he had picked out the distant stack of the factory boilerhouse.
It was smokeless. What the hell is he playing at? Lothar leapt to his feet and balanced easily against the trawler's motion. He has let the boilers go cold. It will take five or six hours to refire them and our fish will begin to spoil.
Damn him, damn him to hell! Raging still, Lothar dropped down to the wheelhouse. As he yanked the foghorn to alert the factory, he snapped, With the money from the fish I'm going to buy one of Marconi's newfangled short-wave radio machines so we can talk to the factory while we are at sea; then this sort of thing won't happen. He broke off again and stared. What the hell is going on! He snatched the binoculars from the bin next to the control panel and focused them.
They were close enough now to see the small crowd at the main doors of the factory. The cutters and packers in their rubber aprons and boots.
They should have been at their places in the factory.
There is Willem. The factory manager was standing on the end of the long wooden unloading jetty that thrust out into the still waters of the bay on its heavy teak pilings.
What the hell is he playing at, the boilers cold and everybody hanging about outside? There were two strangers with Willem, standing one on each side of him. They were dressed in dark civilian suits and they had that self-important, puffed-up look of petty officialdom that Lothar knew and dreaded.
Tax collectors or other civil servants, Lothar whispered, and his anger cooled and was replaced with unease. No minion of the government had ever brought him good news.
Trouble, he guessed. Just now when I have a thousand tons of fish to cook and can, Then he noticed the motor cars. They had been screened by the factory building until Da Silva made the turn into the main channel that would bring the trawler up to the off-loading jetty. There were two cars. One was a battered old T model Ford, but the other, even though covered with a pale coating of fine desert dust, was a much grander machine, and Lothar felt his heart trip and his breathing alter.
There could not be two similar vehicles in the whole of Africa. it was an elephantine Daimler, painted daffodil yellow. The last time he had seen it, it had been parked outside the offices of the Courtney Mining and Finance Company in the Main Street of Windhoek.
Lothar had been on his way to discuss an extension of his loans from the company. He had stood on the opposite side of the wide dusty unpaved street and watched as she came down the broad marble steps, flanked by two of her obsequious employees in dark suits and high celluloid collars; one of them had opened the door of the magnificent yellow machine for her and bowed her into the driver's seat while the other had run to take the crank handle. Scorning a chauffeur, she had driven off herself, not even glancing in Lothar's direction, and left him pale and trembling with the conflicting emotions that the mere sight of her had evoked. That had been almost a year before.
Now he roused himself as Da Silva laid the heavily burdened trawler alongside the jetty. They were so low in the water that Manfred had to toss the bow mooring-line up to one of the men on the jetty above him.
Lothar, these men, they want to speak to you. Willem called down. He was sweating nervously as he jerked a thumb at the man who flanked him.
Are you Mr Lothar De La Rey? the smaller of the two strangers demanded, pushing his dusty fedora hat onto the back of his head and mopping the pale line of skin that was exposed beneath the brim.
That's right. Lothar glared up at him with his clenched fists upon his hips. And who the hell are your Are you the owner of the South west African Canning and Fishing Company? Ja! Lothar answered him in Afrikaans. I am the owner and what of it? I am the sheriff of the court in Windhoek, and I have here a writ of attachment over all the assets of the company. The sheriff brandished the document he held.
They've closed the factory, Willem called down to Lothar miserably, his moustaches quivering. They made me draw the fires on my boilers. You can't do that! Lothar snarled, and his eyes slitted yellow and fierce as those of an angry leopard. I've got a thousand tons of fish to process. Are these the four trawlers registered in the company's name? the sheriff went on, unperturbed by the outburst, but he unbuttoned his dark jacket and pulled it back as he placed both hands on his hips. A heavy Webley service revolver hung on a leather holster from his belt. He turned his head to watch the other trawlers mooring at their berths on each side of the jetty, then without waiting for Lothar to answer he went on placidly, My assistant will place the court seals on them and their cargoes. I must warn you that it will be a criminal offence to remove either the boats or their cargoes. You can't do this to me! Lothar swarmed up the ladder onto the jetty. His tone was no longer belligerent. I have to get my fish processed. Don't you understand? They'll be stinking to the heavens by tomorrow morning They are not your fish. The sheriff shook his head. They belong to the Courtney Mining and Finance Company., He gestured to his assistant impatiently. Get on with it, man. And he began to turn away.
She's here, Lothar called after him, and the sheriff turned back to face him again.
She's here, Lothar repeated. That's her car. She has come herself, hasn't she? The sheriff dropped his eyes and shrugged, but Willem gobbled a reply.
Yes, she's here, she's waiting in my office. Lothar turned away from the group and strode down the jetty, his heavy oilskin breeches rustling and his fists still bunched as though he were going into a fight.
The agitated crowd of factory hands was waiting for him at the head of the jetty.
What is happening, Baas? they pleaded. They won't let us work.
What must we do, Ou Baas? Wait! Lothar ordered them brusquely. I will fix this. Will we get our pay, Baas? We've got children, 'You'll be paid, Lothar snapped, I promise you that. It was a promise he could not keep, not until he had sold his fish, and he pushed his way through them and strode around the corner of the factory towards the manager's office.
The Daimler was parked outside the door, and a boy leaned against the front mudguard of the big yellow machine. It was obvious that he was disgruntled and bored. He was perhaps a year older than Manfred but an inch or so shorter and his body was slimmer and neater. He wore a white shirt that had wilted a little in the heat, and his fashionable Oxford bags of grey flannel were dusty and too modish for a boy of his age, but there was an unstudied grace about him, and he was beautiful as a girl, with flawless skin and dark indigo eyes.
Lothar came up short at the sight of him, and before he could stop himself, he said, Shasa! The boy straightened up quickly and flicked the lock of dark hair off his forehead.
How do you know my name? he asked, and despite his tone the dark blue eyes sparkled with interest as he studied Lothar with a level, almost adult self-assurance.
There were a hundred answers Lothar could have given, and they crowded to his lips: Once, many years ago, I saved you and your mother from death in the desert.. . I helped wean you, and carried you on the pommel of my saddle when you were a baby ... I loved you, almost as much as once I loved your mother ... You are Manfred's brother you are half brother to my own son. I'd recognize you anywhere, even after a t s time. But instead he said, Shasa is the Bushman word for "Good Water", the most precious substance in the Bushman world. That's right. Shasa Courtney nodded. The man interested him. There was a restrained violence and cruelty in him, an impression of untapped strength, and his eyes were strangely light coloured, almost yellow like those of a cat. You're right. It's a Bushman name, but my Christian name is Michel. That's French. My mother is French. Where is she? Lothar demanded, and Shasa glanced at the office door.