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Show he's a Turk. Turks don't have oil." "Look boy, don't go twisting things around. I want him out of here by next month. You should never have let that woman of yours go, and now we'll just have to find somebody else if you can't live alone. Understand?" "Sure, Mr. McPherson, I understand. I'll talk to him about it." Garrett knows as he speaks that he will not talk to Ahmed about it. Not that he wouldn't be happy enough if the Turk left, he simply doesn't like the old man's motives, or his tactics. If he wants Ahmed out, he'll have to do the dirty work himself. It has occurred to Garrert many times, ever since Trish left, that perhaps he_ should leave the farm; but he knows that he won't, not yet. He likes the openness of the fields around him and the creek which wanders through them like a crooked smile; he likes the outbuildings behind the house and especially the old barn which is rented to a neighbor whose horses, which he keeps there, are ignored for days at a time; he likes the huge pine tree which stands in front of the house and towers over it in permanent green both summer and winter; he even likes the small country cemetery, on the slight hill across the road, at which he has seen McPherson glance. He does not want to give these things up, not yet, nor is he willing to pass McPherson's unkind sentiments on to Ahmed, who has, just in the past week, become slightly less reclusive. The Turk has even begun to talk some, not about chemistry but about his newly acquired interest. Ahmed has become suddenly passionate about photography. "I want to make a record of everything," he has explained to |