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.

"Sometimes it's not a sin to back down," he muttered, wiping the barely noticeable smile from his lips.

But Mark, not giving him a chance to continue, quickly interrupted:

"It all depends on how many steps you can take back without making a mistake!"

Those words, sharp and confident, were the last straw for Neff. His face went pale with anger, and he stepped back in irritation, waving his hand as if trying to get rid of the irritant. He stood there for a few seconds, as if deciding whether to continue the conversation, but apparently realized that this conversation was no longer meaningful.

Neff turned and walked away, his steps heavy, and with each step his anger seemed to subside, but traces of it remained in the air like a shadow.

When he left, Mark was left alone with the workers. He looked around at them, feeling a slight wave of relief. He took a deep breath and allowed himself a small smile, almost to himself. And then suddenly he heard the command for a break ring out in the air, short and sharp, like a hammer hitting a rail. The workers began to stop what they were doing: someone dropped a hammer, someone put down a bolt and unscrewed a wrench, brushing the dust off their hands. Everyone's hands were rough and calloused, but now they rubbed their palms together in a relaxed manner, preparing for the break.

Mark watched as several workers began to light a fire, laying out wood for lunch. Smoke quickly rose into the air, and the smell of cooking filled the air-a simple but hearty meal that was needed in their conditions. Someone unwrapped a sack of potatoes, someone took out a pot, boiling water for tea. It all happened silently, like a familiar ritual, familiar and long-standing part of the day.

However, most of the workers, about fifteen of them, headed for a large round target set up far from the camp, which had a caricature of the president on it. The head was drawn with exaggerated ears and nose, and the expression on the face was mocking and sinister, which made many smile. The workers quickly organized themselves around the target, and several of them began to pull out air pistols and test shells.

"Come on, let's go!" one of the workers shouted, and the others, laughing, took turns aiming. Their smiles were wide but tense, and their faces were slightly twisted with concentration.

Mark walked closer to the group of workers, watching them continue their game with the target. At that moment, one of the young guys - a strong man with short hair, about twenty years old - took a shot and hit the bull's eye. The sound of the bullet hitting the target was clear and ringing, and its impact caused an explosion of applause and laughter.

"You're something, boy!" one of the older workers praised him. "Aim like a real master!"

The gun was passed to the next guy, a young guy of about 17. He took the weapon a little hesitantly and raised it in front of him. His hands were shaking a little, but he held it in, trying not to show his excitement. His gaze was tense, and when he took aim, the others began to laugh, encouraging him.

"Come on, Galbraith, don't let us down!" one of the workers shouted.

The boy clenched his teeth, trying not to show how much his fingers were shaking. He fired, and the bullet flew past the target, leaving only a sound in the air. There was a moment of silence, and then a mocking cry from one of his comrades was heard:

"You're a slob!"

Another one standing nearby immediately intervened:

"Come on, don't frown at the guy, let's go and see, maybe it's not so bad."

All 15 men, laughing and chatting, approached the target to check the result. One of the workers, the one who had suggested approaching, ran his hand over the target, feeling the bullet marks with mild surprise. His gaze changed from a slight mockery to a serious expression, and he turned to the young man.

"Alas, Galbraith," he said, shaking his head slightly, "Gene was right, you missed."

The workers, as soon as they heard the mocking verdict, could not restrain themselves and began to laugh at Galbraith. The laughter was loud, without malice, but with a clear dose of banter. One of the elders, with a short beard, shook his head and addressed the boy:

"But you were taught how to shoot, Galbraith! You say you want to be a working militant, but you didn't even hit the target!"

Someone from behind added with a smile:

"You're not just a miss, you're a real master of misses, just a little more and we'll send you to the firing range!"

The others laughed and chimed in. One of the loudest, with rough hands, grinned and said:

"To miss like that is just nonsense! Where have you ever seen such a thing?" His voice was full of irony. "The target seems big! You, Galbraith, at least wipe your eyes!"

But the most severe was the one standing a little further away, with a leather jacket that seemed to have saved years of frost. He added, twisting his lips:

"This won't do, you understand? A real worker-gunner should be like Rambo, multiplied by three! He should hit the target at any moment, without thinking. And you, Galbraith, here, you see, didn't even hit the center. This is not like going on a picnic with tea!"

The others all gasped with laughter, and Galbraith, though he could feel his eyes beginning to burn with shame, tried to smile anyway. The oldest of the workmen, with deep lines on his face and strong hands that had handled a tool for many years, looked at Galbraith with a serious expression. His voice was not loud, but it had the firm confidence of an old mentor who was not used to seeing weakness. He looked at the boy and said, as if he were setting him on the path of life:

"You, Galbraith, will form the basis of the proletarian army in the future, remember that! If you want to be a real fighter, remember, this is no place for those who miss the mark. We are all on the front lines, and you must be ready too!"

The words hung in the air, and Galbraith, feeling the weight of these instructions, clenched his teeth, trying not to show that he was embarrassed. But the next moment one of his comrades, the same one who had just laughed, patted him on the shoulder and said with a smile:

"Well, Noah is right! You, Galbraith, should be able to do everything, including shoot! And anyway, come on, look more cheerful, life is not as scary as you think!"

He said this in a light, playful tone, not hiding his jokes, and his words caused a quiet laughter among the other workers. It was like a reminder that, despite all the seriousness of their work, there was always room for humor and fun.

Galbraith, feeling the lightness of his comrade's support, exhaled and finally relaxed a little. He realized that in this team, although strict, one could always find a place for human kindness and support, despite all the difficulties.

Mark stood to the side, watching the scene unfold, his gaze moving softly over the workers, as if studying their habits and moods. All the while, he held the bag he had brought with him to Cambridge, and finally, deciding to move closer, he bent down and picked it up from the grass. A few steps and he was standing next to the workers gathered at the target.

When Gene noticed him, he immediately turned to him with a smile, but there was irony in his voice:

"Mister Parvis, is it possible to be cheerful at a time like this, when everyone around is gloomier than a cloud?"

Mark paused slowly, looking at Gene and his comrades, then answered with a slight grin:

"Until people get used to it, they need to pretend."

The words were spoken as if he were speaking more to himself than to them, but the moment was right, and the workers couldn't help but smile as they felt the tension in their bodies ease a little.

At this time, Galbraith, standing to the side, still offended by the ridicule, muttered in a dissatisfied tone, like a capricious child:

"How can you become a working militant when you have zero bullets!"

These words caused laughter among the workers, but before Mark could answer, he suddenly smiled. It was not a mocking smile, but rather an understanding one, as if he had found something important in this situation. His eyes lit up, and he raised his hand, attracting everyone's attention.

"I ask you to pay attention, comrades," he said in a loud, confident voice.

With these words, Mark, with a solemn, almost theatrical face, approached Galbraith and handed him the suitcase. The guy, at first surprised, took it, not understanding what he was supposed to do with this strange baggage. The other workers, seeing Mark handing over the suitcase, burst out laughing:

"Wow, here you go! Mister engineer brought you a whole suitcase of guns!"

The sounds of laughter filled the air, but then, the moment Galbraith opened the suitcase and everyone standing nearby peered inside, the laughter died down. Inside, neatly arranged, were 15 revolvers, just one for each of the workers standing at the target. The lightning-fast expressions on the workers' faces when they saw the weapons made it clear that the joke no longer made sense.

"That's different!" said one of the older workers, and the others nodded silently.

"Now it's for real!" someone added with a grin but seriousness in their voice. "We have everything we need."

Galbraith, still with a puzzled look in his eyes, clutched his satchel tighter, and all the workers, without losing time, began to quietly lead him away to the bivouac. Without saying anything, they quietly led him to a place where they could safely hide the weapons from the eyes of the guards, not knowing how and what would happen next.

Mark stood there, watching the scene with a small, almost invisible smile. He knew that this scene, this moment, meant a lot to them. And while fifteen working riflemen hid to hide their weapons, he headed for the bivouacs where the rest of the workers had gathered. There was a completely different atmosphere here - around small fires and improvised tables where some were eating, others dozing or chatting, the air was filled with the smell of food and warming earth.

But the most remarkable thing was that it didn't look like a simple temporary camp, but something completely different - more like the beginning of some kind of fair or big party. The tables were covered with various supplies, and materials were scattered around, as if someone was preparing for a big event. Mark stopped and, looking around the bivouac, couldn't help but smile. He said with surprise:

"You make me happy, you got so much material!"

The workers, hearing his words, rose from their seats and, eagerly inviting him to follow them, began to lead him through the bivouac. Mark went ahead, following them as they led him to a strange construction that seemed to be just beginning. In place stood a circular structure with several posts and ropes, in the center of which something was spinning, resembling a carousel.

"What is this?" Mark asked, squinting at the unusual structure.

One of the workers, with a grin and the air of a connoisseur, approached Mark, noticing his interest in the strange construction, and, with a sly smile, explained:

"These are the ones the factory brought us!"

Mark, hearing it, squinted and looked closely at the structure, trying to figure out what this strange thing was. He frowned, but leaned in with interest to examine the details closer.

"Let's see," he said, feeling his curiosity growing.

He ran his hand over the pillars, feeling them, and checking the mechanisms. Curiosity sparkled in his eyes, but he was in no hurry to draw conclusions. Everything around him, despite the seeming carelessness, resembled the beginning of some fun event. He felt that this was not just a temporary thing, but a preparation for something greater.

At this point, several other workers, noticing that Mark was paying attention to what was happening, began enthusiastically carrying posters with bright slogans and images. Everyone was eager to set them up at the edges of the bivouac, as if they were rushing to decorate the space before some important event. Their movements were quick, but with an obvious careless energy, as if all this was happening not according to plan, but by intuition.

"Well," said one of the workers with a cheerful tone in his voice, "everything is ready, we'll start soon."

"Exactly," another one chimed in, stroking his hand over the poster, "we're preparing for a real fair!"

One of the senior workers, looking at Mark with a smile, straightened his shoulders and remarked:

"Come on, mister Parvis, don't waste time, we have business here - everything is for the people, we need to get it done!"

Mark felt a sudden thrill of excitement when he heard this. He was really fired up about helping out, even if he had no idea how to organize such an event. He resolutely took off his jacket, leaving him in a black vest and white shirt, and walked up to the nearest worker.

"Okay," Mark said, untying his tie and rolling it into his pocket, "we need to do this smart! The area needs to be clearly divided into zones: here's a place for the carousel, here's for the food, and here's a place for... what, guys, do we have room for?"

The worker, who was hauling wooden poles at the time, stopped, grinned, and looked at Mark.

"Mister Parvis, we are more into hardware here than fairs, but if you want, we will do everything!" he said with a smile and continued working.

Mark nodded, as if he already knew what to do. He noticed several abandoned metal structures and approached them, feeling that the process itself was beginning to captivate him. He said with the air of an experienced organizer:

"We need to strengthen the carousel. Everything has to be secure so that no one falls! And look," he pointed to one of the metal posts, "do you see how important this is? Balance is important! If the carousel wobbles, there will be no fun atmosphere."

Despite his confident words, the workers knew that this was not exactly what an engineer should do. But they were pleased that in Mark they found not just a boss, but someone who did not stand aside, but was ready to take part in their work, albeit in such an unusual context.

"What should we do with these posters?" asked another worker, already holding up a poster with a bright image.

Mark thought for a moment, not knowing what to answer, but quickly got his bearings.

"Hang them up all around! Let it all be visible, people should see how much fun we have!" he said, not losing his confidence. "And don't forget to make a sign saying "Free Admission" so that everyone can come in and enjoy themselves!"

The workers laughed and whispered among themselves, but did what Mark suggested. And although he had no experience in building a fair, his confidence and desire to help did not leave them indifferent.

"Yes, that's true," said Gene, the same workman who had laughed with Galbraith a little while before, "you, mister Parvis, at least know how to amuse the people!"

Mark couldn't help but smile back, knowing that they saw him as someone who wasn't just giving orders, but actually wanted to share in their work and fun. He watched them as they continued their work, and in that moment he felt like for the first time in a long time he wasn't just an outside observer, but a part of something that mattered to them.