The Land God gave to Cain

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‘Your name Ian Ferguson?’ The question was flung at me out of a cloud of dust and I straightened up from the theodolite to find one of the Company Land-Rovers had pulled in behind me. The engine was ticking over and the driver was leaning out so that his sun-reddened face was clear of the windscreen. ‘All right. Hop in, chum. You’re wanted down at Company Office.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘I dunno. Said it was urgent and sent me up to get you. Probably you got your levels wrong and the runway’s on the skew.’ He grinned. He was always trying to get a rise out of the younger engineers. I entered the figures in my notebook, shouted to my rodholder that I wouldn’t be long and clambered in, and then we drove off across the rough ground, trailing a streamer of dust behind us.

The Company Office was just where the old runway finished and our new construction began. It was a large wooden hut with a corrugated iron roof, and as I went in the place was like an oven, for it was very hot in England that September. ‘Oh, there you are, Ferguson.’ Mr Meadows, the chief engineer came to meet me. ‘Afraid I’ve some bad news for you.’ The roar of an aircraft taking off shook the hut and through it I heard him say, ‘Telegram for you. Just came through on the phone.’ He handed me a sheet of paper.

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