The Power of One Page #21

127.

The copper of the mines inNorthern Rhodesia is mined below

ground. All day a behemoth of aman, a diamond driller, works a

stope which is like the top of afunnel.

CUT TO:

178 INT. STOPE 178

A huge diamond driller at work drilling and blasting inthe stope.

PK (V.O.)

Setting charges and drilling therock. The only way for the rawore he takes from the sides of

the stope to get to the haulagebelow is to pass through the spoutof a funnel and out the steel

doors at the bottom -- sixty feetdown.

CUT TO:

179 TRAPPED DOORS AT BOTTOM OF FUNNEL 179

opening, as the haulage cart fills with ore and movesaway on the track in the tunnel below.

PK (V.O.)

Halfway down the spout area is aset of six tungsten steel barscalled a grizzly which catch allthe rocks too large to make itthrough the funnel mouth to safehaulage.

180 ANGLE ON GRIZZLY 180

six bars with men working them.

PK (V.O.)

These are taken care of by agrizzly, an explosives expertwhose job it is to keep the oreflowing, and since when the oredoesn't flow, neither does the

money, working the grizzly is avery crucial and therefore verywell-paid position. Three months'

128.

work earns a year's stay at

Oxford. Yesterday, on receiving

my blasting license from the

School of Mines, I signed on to

work the bars for a year.

CUT TO:

181 INT. MINER'S BAR 181

A crude place where the bar runs the back length of the

room and the bare concrete surroundings offer nothing in

the way of diversion from the main purpose of being there

-- to drink hard and long.

THOMAS, a harsh, ruddy-faced Welshman, the School of

Mines instructor, downs a drink, pours another and looks

up at PK.

THOMAS:

Are you crazy? To sign on for

a year?

PK:

You said I was the best you ever

taught, sir.

THOMAS:

And you are, boyo. The absolute

best.

THOMAS (CONT'D)

But even the best doesn't survive

a year on the bars. Down in that

damn tube the luck runs out sooner

than later. You may be a genius

at reading the rock but you ain't

no f***in' fortune teller.

Thomas throws back another drink.

PK:

You worked grizzly a year.

THOMAS:

And let me show you what I have

to show for it to this day.

He holds up his hand. It shakes noticeably.

THOMAS:

And that's thirteen years after

the fact, boyo.

129.

A NOISE from the doorway turns Thomas's attention. He

looks over as four huge men enter, drillers, men whose

faces and bodies are as hard and massive as the rock

they work.

One of the men pauses at the door and grabs his head as

an enormous jolt of pain runs through it. He shakes it

off and follows his friends to a table.

Thomas looks concerned.

PK:

Something wrong?

THOMAS:

(unconvincing)

Nothing.

The BARTENDER comes over and puts another shot in front

of Thomas.

BARTENDER:

One double brandy. One...

(derisive)

lemon soda.

He puts the lemon soda in front of PK.

THOMAS:

Come on, then.

Thomas lifts his glass.

THOMAS:

On being the best damned blaster

ever taught by Ian Thomas.

Cheers.

Thomas and PK clink glasses. Thomas knocks his shot back.

THOMAS:

Another.

The bartender pours another.

THOMAS:

Sure you don't want one?

PK:

I don't like the taste.

THOMAS:

Taste? You don't drink for the

taste.

130.

He holds out his hand. It is steady now. He fixes PK

with a portentous stare. Thomas looks over at the table

of drillers. The man with the headache is downing one

shot after another.

THOMAS:

Hell's comin'.

He draws PK's attention to the drillers.

THOMAS:

Drillers. He's got a powder

pain from breathin' too much of

that damn gelignite. The pain's

bad enough. Mixed with a little

alcohol it's f***in' lethal.

He watches the driller down two more shots of liquor.

THOMAS:

Come on. We ain't got much time.

Thomas directs PK towards the door.

THOMAS:

The two most dangerous things

you'll ever see in your life,

boyo:
a hangup of rock that

won't blast free on first shot

and a driller with a powder

headache drinkin'.

As they reach the door the behemoth explodes with a

roar. He grabs his head and staggers backwards; a mad

look comes into his eyes.

His three huge frineds rush to grab him. He throws

them off as if they were ants.

He rips a table out of its bolting to the concrete

floor and flings it across the room.

The men drinking in the bar, all tough cases, begin to

flee.

Thomas grabs PK whose eyes stare in amazement as the

behemoth struggles against his three massive friends

and pulls him out of the bar.

CUT TO:

182 EXT. MINER'S CAMP - TWILIGHT 182

Pk is watching a rugby match being played at twilight.

The players are a rough, brutal bunch and play their

131.

game accordingly. Fights continually break out.

Off a play a fight breaks out. One of the men is kicked

unconscious. Two of his teammates carry him off the

field, dumping his body unceremoniously like a sack of

potatoes on the sidelines. They run back as play

resumes.

PK turns and walks back through the camp.

CUT TO:

183 EXT. CAMP - NIGHT 183

A company-built miner's camp. Cement huts with steel

doors and corrugated roofs. No shrubbery, only dust,

cement, and the roughest-looking bunch of men assembled

on earth.

PK (V.O.)

Dear Morrie. To answer your

question:
yes--sports are played

here, but only in the loosest

sense of the words "sport" and

"play". The rules are

different for everything, in

games as well as in the rest of

our lives. The managers, the

foremen, the company people.

They live apart from the miners.

They have families. Proper

gardens. Sunday dinners. The

miners--the crud, as we are called

-- don't. This is a society of

men, many of whom have pasts

better left behind. Future does

not apply. It is a society only

in the loosest sense of the word.

The laws of survival are simple-

you either do or you don't.

PK comes down a side street. A half a dozen men at

cards, hard-faced desperadoes, see him pass, eyeing him

closely. PK averts his eyes. From behind his back

comes the sound of LIPS PUCKERING loudly, indecently.

PK swallows hard. The sound of a CHARGE turns him to

the six men bolting from their card game after him,

whooping with lascivious intent. PK takes off.

The chase takes PK and his pursuers flying through the

streets of the camp, past one identical cement hut after

another. People watch, disinterested. No one raises

a hand to help.

PK comes racing around the corner to three of the men

132.

blocking the street in front of him. He whirls. The

others catch up behind, yelling and hooting. The two

lines advance.

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