The Greatest Works of E. E. Smith. E. E. Smith

'er the whole two-fifty! Get down, Mac—I'll take it the rest of the way!"

      He put his shoulders to the improvised yoke, braced his feet, and heaved. The burley, screaming and yelling and clamoring, went joyously to work—both ways—God, what punishment! The rotary, free and clear, chewed rock more viciously than ever. An armored hand smote his leg. Lift! He lifted that foot, set it down two inches higher. The other one. Four inches. Six. One foot. Two. Three. Lord of the ancients! Was this lifetime of agony only one minute? Or wasn't he holding her—had the damn thing stopped cutting? No, it was still cutting—the rocks were banging against and bouncing off of his helmet as viciously and as numerously as ever; he could sense, rather than feel, the furious fashion in which the relays of timbermen were laboring to keep those high-stepping jacks in motion.

      No, it had been only one minute. Twice that long yet to go. God! Nothing could be that brutal—a bull elephant couldn't take it—but by all the gods of space and all the devils in hell, he'd stay with it until that sag broke through. And grimly, doggedly, toward the end nine-tenths unconsciously, Lensman Conway Costigan stayed with it.

      And in the stope so far below, a new and highly authoritative voice blared from the speaker.

      "Jones! God damn it, Jones, answer me! If Jones isn't there, somebody else answer me—anybody!"

      "Yes, sir?" Wright was afraid to answer that peremptory call, but more afraid not to.

      "Jones? This is Clancy."

      "No, sir. Not Jones. Wright, sir—top miner."

      "Where's Jones?"

      "Up in the sag, sir. He's holding the burley—alone."

      "Alone! Hell's purple fires! Tell him to—how many men has he got on the rotary?"

      "Two, sir. That's all they's room for."

      "Tell him to quit it—put somebody else on it—I won't have him killed, damn it!"

      "He's the only one strong enough to hold it, sir, but I'll send up word." Word went up via sign language, and came back down. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but he says to tell you to go to hell, sir. He won't have no time for chit-chat, he says, until this goddam sag is through or the juice goes off, sir."

      A blast of profanity erupted from the speaker, of such violence that the thoroughly scared Wright threw the walkie-talkie down the waste-chute, and in the same instant the rotary crashed through.

      Dazed, groggy, barely conscious from his terrific effort, Jones stared owlishly through the heavy, steel-braced lenses of his helmet while the timbermen set a few more courses of wood and the rotary walked itself and the clinging burley up and out of the hole. He climbed stiffly out, and as he stared at the pillar of light flaring upward from the sag, his gorge began to rise.

      "Wha's the idea of that damn surveyor lying to us like that?" he babbled. "We had oodles an' oodles of time—didn't have to kill ourselves—damn water ain't got there yet—wha's the big...." He wobbled weakly, and took one short step, and the lights went out. The surveyor's estimate had been impossibly, accidentally close. They had had a little extra time; but it was measured very easily in seconds.

      And Jones, logical to the end in a queerly addled way, stood in the almost palpable darkness, and wobbled, and thought. If a man couldn't see anything with his eyes wide open, he was either blind or unconscious. He wasn't blind, therefore he must be unconscious and not know it. He sighed, wearily and gratefully, and collapsed.

      Battery lights were soon reconnected, and everybody knew that they had holed through. There was no more panic. And, even before the shift-boss had recovered full consciousness, he was walking down the drift toward Station Eleven.

      There is no need to enlarge upon the rest of that grim and grisly affair. Level after level was activated; and, since working upward in mines is vastly faster than working downward, the two parties met on the Eighth Level. Half of the men who would otherwise have died were saved, and—much more important from the viewpoint of Uranium, Inc.—the deeper and richer half of the biggest and richest uranium mine in existence, instead of being out of production for a year or more, would be back in full operation in a couple of weeks.

      And George Washington Jones, still a trifle shaky from his ordeal, was called into the front office. But before he arrived:

      "I'm going to make him Assistant Works Manager," Clancy announced.

      "I think not."

      "But listen, Mr. Isaacson—please! How do you expect me to build up a staff if you snatch every good man I find away from me?"

      "You didn't find him. Birkenfeld did. He was here only on a test. He is going into Department Q."

      Clancy, who had opened his mouth to continue his protests, shut it wordlessly. He knew that department Q was—

      DEPARTMENT Q.

      CHAPTER 15

       Table of Contents

      Costigan was not surprised to see the man he had known as Birkenfeld in Uranium's ornate conference room. He had not expected, however, to see Isaacson. He knew, of course, that Spaceways owned Uranium, Inc., and the planet Eridan, lock, stock, and barrel; but it never entered his modest mind that his case would be of sufficient importance to warrant the personal attention of the Big Noise himself. Hence the sight of that suave and unrevealing face gave the putative Jones a more than temporary qualm. Isaacson was top-bracket stuff, 'way out of his class. Virgil Samms ought to be taking this assignment, but since he wasn't—

      But instead of being an inquisition, the meeting was friendly and informal from the start. They complimented him upon the soundness of his judgment and the accuracy of his decisions. They thanked him, both with words and with a considerable sum of expendable credits. They encouraged him to talk about himself, but there was nothing whatever of the star-chamber or of cross-examination. The last question was representative of the whole conference.

      "One other thing, Jones, has me slightly baffled," Isaacson said, with a really winning smile. "Since you do not drink, and since you were not in search of feminine ... er ... companionship, just why did you go down to Roaring Jack's dive?"

      "Two reasons," Jones said, with a somewhat shamefaced grin. "The minor one isn't easy to explain, but ... well, I hadn't been having an exactly easy time of it on Earth ... you all know about that, I suppose?"

      They knew.

      "Well, I was taking a very dim view of things in general, and a good fight would get it out of my system. It always does."

      "I see. And the major reason?"

      "I knew, of course, that I was on probation. I would have to get promoted, and fast, or stay sunk forever. To get promoted fast, a man can either be enough of a boot-licker to be pulled up from on high, or he can be shoved up by the men he is working with. The best way to get a crowd of hard-rock men to like you is to lick a few of 'em—off hours, of course, and according to Hoyle—and the more of 'em you can lick at once, the better. I'm pretty good at rough-and-tumble brawling, so I gambled that the cops would step in before I got banged up too much. I won."

      "I see," Isaacson said again, in an entirely different tone. He did see, now. "The first technique is so universally used that the possibility of the second did not occur to me. Nice work—very nice." He turned to the other members of the Board. "This, I believe, concludes the business of the meeting?"

      For some reason or other Isaacson nodded slightly as he asked the question; and one by one, as though in concurrence, the others nodded in reply. The meeting broke up. Outside the door, however, the magnate did not go about his own business nor send Jones about his. Instead:

      "I would like to show you, if I may, the above-ground part of our Works?"

      "My time is yours, sir. I am interested."

      It is unnecessary