Little fifteen...

Mark Tempe walked along the tracks with the works foreman, a sturdy, silent man with a gray beard and a scowl. His silence seemed to speak louder than any words. The silence between them was broken by the hum of work: the clanging of hammers, the pounding of stakes, the creaking of timber being laid on sleepers.

Mark, in his black engineer's uniform, seemed almost at home in the landscape, though he still felt a little out of place. The glint of his new pince-nez on the bridge of his nose distracted him slightly from the memory of how he had broken his old one when he had gotten into a fight with Damien of the Union of Gabriel the Archangel upon his arrival in Cambridge. He saw the world around him more clearly now, and with it came a strange calm.

The workers gave him a strange sense of peace. Their concentrated faces, their even movements, as if it were all part of some ancient, ritual dance. The rails, the sleepers, the bolts, the hammers-everything seemed to move in harmony with an invisible rhythm. And this rhythm reminded him of music. A melody began to sound in his head-simple, slow, like the clatter of the rails and the blows of the hammers.

The chief finally broke the silence as they passed a group of workers busily hammering in more sleepers. His voice was rough and a little hoarse, as if from years of command:

"That's where I have it, this American carelessness of ours," he stopped, pointing his finger at a worker who seemed to be in no hurry. "Everyone thinks that the world around them will wait until they get ready to go to sleep. And there's work to do - in abundance!"

Mark stopped for a moment, looked around and couldn't help but say:

"I'll tell you this: if I want to, I can move mountains." His voice sounded calm, but with a hint of challenge, the way he was used to speaking to students who doubted their abilities.

The chief glanced at him, tired but piercing, and moved on without saying a word. But when they approached the place where the workers had set up camp, the crudely knocked-together plank shelters and fires with blackened kettles indicating that people were eating, sleeping, and living here, the chief spoke again:

"Personally, I have no desire to change anything. Everything is the same, day or night. How can I change anything here?" His voice was even, emotionless, as if he had long ago reconciled himself with this "sameness".

He fell silent, but after a few steps he added without turning around:

"But your predecessor, mister Parvis, didn't know his business at all. He spoiled all my workers, but never learned how to manage them. A hack job upon a hack job. Now we're paying the price."

Mark, sensing the challenge behind these words, did not answer immediately. He needed time to understand what exactly was troubling the chief: his fatigue, apathy, or irritation that the new blood - himself, under the name of Angus Parvis - must now prove his worth.

At this time, the Chief stopped near the fire, where several workers were laughing intermittently at someone's joke, and, putting his hands on his hips, looked at Mark with a displeased expression.

"Parvis, do it right. We need to fix these rails not before Christmas, but yesterday!" his voice sounded like a hammer blow, sharp and unyielding.

Mark, feeling confident but not wanting to escalate the situation, lifted his chin slightly and calmly replied:

"I will do everything as it should be. But I will tell you straight: human strength is not unlimited. These people are working at the limit of their capabilities, and I am sure that they will do everything that is possible."

The boss looked at him as if he had just bitten into a slice of lemon. His lips pursed and his eyes narrowed into unfriendly slits.

"You, mister Parvis, have an excessive closeness with the workers," he said in an unpleasant voice. "You know, this caught the eye of not only me, but also the Cambridge police. Or maybe someone reported it to them." He said the last words with subtle mockery, as if he was sure that this statement would offend Mark.

Mark lowered his head, restraining himself from answering. What was the point of explaining to this stern man that he had been followed by Paul Buher, a member of the Union of Gabriel the Archangel? This mid-level retired officer with his intense gaze and arrogant gait would certainly not have hidden his involvement if he had reported it. And maybe he had.

The chief stood looking at the dejected Mark with a strange, almost malicious expression. His eyes glittered like those of a predator who has had his fill. He leaned forward a little so that his words would reach Mark.

"You know, someone said they saw one of the Loyalists ask about you, mister Parvis." He paused, as if giving Mark time to digest the words.

Then, as he walked, the chief continued as if this whole conversation had entertained him.

"And the most interesting thing," he grinned, "when the workers found out about this," with these words he made a wide gesture with his hand, pointing to the group of workers who were now listening attentively to the conversation, "well, our guys immediately threw down all their tools and almost burned down the building of the Union of Gabriel the Archangel, this club of loyalists.

The chief's eyes shone not only from the verbal victory, but also from the feeling of his superiority. He continued, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from Mark, as if he was waiting for him to answer or at least justify himself.

"So, mister Parvis, be more careful. Be more careful on all sides."

Mark finally raised his head and met his boss's gaze, his face was tense, but there was no longer any fear in his eyes. He straightened up and said, as if the test had already been passed:

"It's hard to guess, mister Neff, when you can win your case and when you can stop it yourself."

Mark's words hung in the air, as if daring his boss to answer. Neff reacted with disdain, as if the words had not touched him, but his face twisted into a grimace.