“These are English proverbs,” the corporal said, “and do not concern me. Show me at least the colour of your money, or no message will go.”
“There is another proverb,” Sard said, “which says, ‘Grudging greed gets not.’ ”
“Adios,” the corporal said, “grudging greed will get no food nor drink; no message to any engineer; nor blanket at night, if blanket be needed.” He slipped the shutter across the grating and moved across the yard, back into the barton, leaving Sard alone. The cell was empty of any furniture. It measured about seven feet each way. Its roof sloped down from about eight feet at the door to six feet at the back. The floor was earth, the walls adobe, the roof ceiled with plaster, European fashion, against tarantulas. The cell was lit by the omission of one block of adobe just under the eaves at the back. Sard could just see out of this hole by standing on tiptoe. He saw a patch of sandy soil which had been channelled and pitted by people wanting sand; rats were humping about in this among refuse tipped there from the barracks. Beyond the sandy strip and distant about 120 yards was the railway, with its platform, water tank, fuel heap, and the legend
Tlotoatin.
Beyond this was the desert reaching to infinity, where violet rocks gleaming with snow merged into the shimmer of the sky.
The shutter of his door was pulled back: a private soldier peered at him through the bars.
“See,” he said, “you want a message taken to an engineer?”
“Yes,” Sard said.
“Which engineer?”
“Any English engineer. There must be some.”