AFTER breakfast, which spanned the spectrum from burned sausage to semiraw eggs, having been prepared by several of the inmates, Linc spent the rest of the morning filling potholes with gravel brought in wheelbarrow loads from pens in a yard behind the motor depot. Although he pushed weights and sparred to keep in shape, he wasn't used to this kind of work and by lunchtime his arms and back ached, and his T-shirt was sodden from his exertions in the sun, which by then was high. Lunch was as big a disaster as breakfast, and there were angry exchanges between those returning hungry and thirsty from the heat outside and the catering shift who had been in the shade.
The afternoon was worse. Linc and a pudgy, pink-faced kid who said his name was Royal—he was also in Hut 3, bunking somewhere on the far side—were detailed to take over the task of digging up a drainage pipe that had become silted, and cleaning out the trench for new pipe to be laid. The ground was hard and compacted, and had to be broken with a pick before any impression could be made with a shovel. A yellow marker indicated the target distance to be dug today.
There were less than a half hour into it when Royal complained, "I shouldn't be doing this. It's my back. I've always had a bad back." Linc paused from working the pick and looked up at him. The pink face was a plea for sympathy. He wanted Linc to go and say something for him. Linc grunted and went back to swinging the pick.
The clouds that had brought some respite in the morning had dispersed. His hands, sore enough then, were beginning to blister despite the gloves he was wearing. Royal straightened up, clutching a hand to his back. "I can't do this. I know I'm gonna hurt myself. You wouldn't feel bad at me if I tried to see if I could get switched to something different, would you?"
"Do whatever you think you have to do," Linc said tonelessly.
"I mean . . . I really have this problem. Ya gotta understand."
"Like I said, do what you have to."
Royal put down the shovel and walked back along the trench to where Mr. Blue—in a blue overvest—was showing a small group the technique of joining a new length of pipe. Linc watched Royal remonstrating and gesticulating, pointing back to where Linc had picked up the shovel and was beginning to clear the next stretch. Mr. Blue pointed toward the main block and said something Linc was unable to catch. Royal nodded and disappeared in that direction. Mr. Blue stared at Linc for a moment or two, and Linc thought he was about to assign someone else to replace Royal; but then Mr. Blue looked away and carried on with his lesson.
Linc worked on, getting hotter and itchier and feeling more put upon. Real smart, he told himself—he'd evaded labor camp for this? Some difference! For all he knew, this whole thing could be a scam. Maybe it was labor camp in the form of some stupid experiment dreamed up by another idiot psychologist. It was all he could do to prevent his anger from erupting into an uncontrollable display of rage when Mr. Blue looked at his watch, murmured something to his group, and sauntered away, leaving them to pick up their tools and disperse in a way that said plainly that their stint for today was over.
All except one.
He looked Mexican—dark and wiry, with a mat of cropped black hair and a grin that seemed to cut his face in half with a swath of white, even at that distance. He turned his head to gaze after the departing group, then back at Linc, gauging the distance to be dug to the marker. Then he strolled over. "Man, you got left with a bum deal here. You taking help applications?"
Linc leaned on the pick, pushed back the floppy brimmed hat he was wearing, and used the back of a hand to wipe his brow. The Mex had large, laughing brown eyes and a hairline of a mustache. "Sure, why not, if you're applying," Linc said.
He watched as the Mex took up the shovel and began clearing broken dirt from the trench. His movements were slow and even, and appeared effortless. The muscles flexed and rippled under his T-shirt. Linc went back to cutting the line toward the marker. Despite his forced effort, he was having to rest frequently for breath. The Mexican grinned at him without breaking his rhythm. "Not gringo's work, eh? You don't look to me like someone who is used to the sun. I give you a tip—soak the hat in water. The evaporation keeps you cool. A leather hat works even better. That's what they used to do, you know."
"Smart," Linc complimented. He tried to return a grin, but his lips felt cracked. "Wetbacks, I've heard of. But wet-heads is a new one."
The Mexican's voice dropped to a more candid tone. "A guy is gonna need friends in a place like this," he said, revealing his motive. It was astute, realistic. He'd been around. Linc regarded him, sizing him up. The smile was direct and open, nothing crooked or sly, the eyes steady. Linc's gut feel was good.
He shifted the pick to his other hand and extended a gloved palm.
"Name's Linc."
"Angelo." The Mexican gripped and shook firmly. Linc winced.
"So, where did you do this kind of thing?" Linc asked.
Angelo made a face. "Some here, some there. Hey now, what's this? Are you trying to get me RPO'd on my second day here?"
"Forget it. You're right."
"Let's get this finished. Then maybe we'll have some time to lay back a little before we find out what the news is tonight."
The implication only hit Linc later when he was in the shower that, since there had been no one else around when they talked, Angelo had allowed for the possibility that Linc might be a plant. I must be getting slow, Linc told himself. Of course, with all the mystery and restrictions, there were likely to be planted ears in a place like this. Why hadn't something that would normally have been so obvious occurred to him? It had to be the traveling, the unaccustomed work, and the sun, he decided.