Post by Trask on Sept 16, 2006 16:49:28 GMT -5
The signal had bounced a fair way around the globe by the time it reached the office of Bolivar Trask in Washington. The phone rang twice before it was answered.
"Trask," he answered curtly.
"It's good to hear from you Mr. Marx, how is the construction proceeding?"
The accented voice at the other end was temporarily drowned out by the wind and the roaring crash of water against rocks. If it was possible for a sound to convey cold, this managed to do it.
"I said we have just finished sinking shaft number four!" Marx yelled over the roll and crash of the storm tossed ocean. He looked out from the relative shelter of his temporary office on the rocky headland. The thrashing sleet had dropped visibility to barely twenty feet and turned the rocky vista into a misty grey monochrome landscape of shadows.
"And today is a 'good weather day'," Marx muttered to himself. He didn't envy the work crew out in the freezing temperatures struggling to cap the fourth shaft even now.
"No sir, no, I was talking to myself."
"Yes sir, we're still on schedule for completion by winter," they had better be; if Marx and his crew were not in better accommodation than the bunk-houses by winter they would probably start freezing to death.
Still, they were being paid very well to work on this forsaken stretch of barrens.
"Yes sir!" He raised his voice again as another particularly large wave broke across the headland.
"I'll be sure to do that sir." He punched the button on the phone and terminated the call.
That meant it was time to get back to the crew.
"Pizdets," he exclaimed with a sigh.
Then he trudged back out into the bleak weather.
"Trask," he answered curtly.
"It's good to hear from you Mr. Marx, how is the construction proceeding?"
The accented voice at the other end was temporarily drowned out by the wind and the roaring crash of water against rocks. If it was possible for a sound to convey cold, this managed to do it.
"I said we have just finished sinking shaft number four!" Marx yelled over the roll and crash of the storm tossed ocean. He looked out from the relative shelter of his temporary office on the rocky headland. The thrashing sleet had dropped visibility to barely twenty feet and turned the rocky vista into a misty grey monochrome landscape of shadows.
"And today is a 'good weather day'," Marx muttered to himself. He didn't envy the work crew out in the freezing temperatures struggling to cap the fourth shaft even now.
"No sir, no, I was talking to myself."
"Yes sir, we're still on schedule for completion by winter," they had better be; if Marx and his crew were not in better accommodation than the bunk-houses by winter they would probably start freezing to death.
Still, they were being paid very well to work on this forsaken stretch of barrens.
"Yes sir!" He raised his voice again as another particularly large wave broke across the headland.
"I'll be sure to do that sir." He punched the button on the phone and terminated the call.
That meant it was time to get back to the crew.
"Pizdets," he exclaimed with a sigh.
Then he trudged back out into the bleak weather.