The office of any with into the hundreds of thousands is a place indeed, when its plants are all on Tellus and its are as nearly as such can be made. When that firm's is Colonial, however, and its are only a of from slavery, procurement of is a first-magnitude problem; the Personnel Department, like Alice in Wonderland, must as fast as it can go in order to where it is. Thus the "Help Wanted" of Uranium, Incorporated the Earth with and guile; and thus for twelve hours of every day and for seven days of every week the offices of Uranium, Inc. were with men—mostly the of Earth.
There were, of course, exceptions; one of which through the group of waiting men and a card through the "Information" wicket. He was a chunky-looking individual, appearing than his five nine of a hundred and ninety of weight—even though every was where it would do the most good. He looked—well, slouchy—and his was sullen.
"Birkenfeld—by appointment," he through the wicket, in a voice which have been deep.
The plugs. "Mr. George W. Jones, sir, by appointment.... Thank you, sir," and Mr. Jones was into Mr. Birkenfeld's private office.
"Have a chair, please, Mr. ... er ... Jones."
"So you know?"
"Yes. It is that a man of your education, training, and ability to us for of his own initiative, and a very is indicated."
"What am I here for, then?" the visitor demanded, truculently. "You have me by mail. Everybody else has, since I got out."
"You are here we who on the cannot to pass upon a man of his past, unless that past precludes the of a useful future. Yours not; and in some cases, such as yours, we are very in the future." The official's deep.
Conway Costigan had been in the limelight. On the contrary, he had a and an art. Even in such of as that which had at the Ambassadors' Ball he managed to unnoticed. His Lens had been visible. No one Lensmen—and Clio and Jill—knew that he had one; and Lensmen—and Clio and Jill—did not talk. Although he was that this Birkenfeld was not an ordinary interviewer, he was that the of Uranium, Inc. had out and only what the Patrol had wanted them to find.
"So?" Jones' subtly, and not of the penetrant eyes. "That's all I want—a chance. I'll start at the bottom, as as you say."
"We advertise, and truthfully, that opportunity on Eridan is unlimited." Birkenfeld his with care. "In your case, opportunity will be either unlimited or zero, upon yourself."
"I see." Dumbness had not been in the Mr. Jones' background. "You don't need to a blue-print."
"You'll do, I think." The in approval. "Nevertheless, I must make our position clear. If the was—shall we say accidental?—you will go with us. If you try to play false, you will not last long and you will not be missed."
"Fair enough."
"Your to start at the is commendable, and it is a that those who come up through the ranks make the best executives; in our line at least. Just how are you to start?"
"How low do you go?"
"A mucker, I think would be low enough; and, from your build, and physical strength, the logical job."
"Mucker?"
"One who in the mine. Nor can we make any in your case as to the of and transportation."
"Of not."
"Take this to Mr. Calkins, in Room 6217. He will you through the mill."
And that night, in an boarding-house, Mr. George Washington Jones, after a Service Special survey in every direction, a large and hand into a screened in his and touched a Lens.
"Clio?" The mother of their children appeared in his mind. "Made it, sweetheart, no at all. No more Lensing for a while—not too long, I hope—so ... so-long, Clio."
"Take it easy, Spud darling, and be careful." Her was light, but she not a of fear. "Oh, I wish I go, too!"
"I wish you could, Tootie." The minds to what the two had done together in the red of Nevian murk; on Nevia's mighty, globe—but that of would not do. "But the boys will keep in touch with me and keep you posted. And besides, you know how hard it is to a baby-sitter!"
It is that the operations of have so little the ages. Or is it? Ores came into being with the of the planets; they only with the passage of time. Ancient mines, of course, not go very or a very far; there was too much water and too little air. The steam engine helped, in if not in kind, by water and air. Tools improved—from the metal through and and candle, through and and low and acetylene, through Sullivan and high and electrics, through and and and glow, to the of today—but what, fundamentally, is the difference? Men still crawl, snake-like, to where the metal is. Men still, by of brawn, the out to where our can of it. And men still die, in unknown fashions and in recorded numbers, in the which supply the upon which our rests.
But to the of narrative, George Washington Jones to Eridan as a common laborer; a mucker. He the skip—a "skip" is a mine elevator—some four thousand eight hundred feet. He an ore-car a of eight miles to the brilliantly-illuminated which was the Station of the Twelfth and level. He was to the in which he would sleep for the next fifteen nights: "Fifteen and three up," ran the contract.
He walked four hundred yards, "Nothing Down!" and his way up a rise—in many places than his shoulders—to the some three hundred above. He reported to the who was to be his and his to the skoufer—which, while not a at all closely, still meant hard physical labor. He already ore—the glossy, sub-metallic, black of or pitchblende; the of and carnotite; the and of tobernite. No from Jones' into the heavily-timbered, steel-braced waste-pockets of the stope; very little the rise.
He to the work; got used to the lifeless, dry, air. And when, after a days, his "Nothing Down!" called a "Nothing but a little stuff!" and a of and pebbles, he that he had been into the undefined, unwritten, and unofficial, yet actual, of hard-rock men. He belonged.
He that he must his policy of invisibility; and, after days of thought, he how he would do it. Hence, upon the day of his "up" period, he joined his in their upon one of the rawest, of Danapolis. The men were met, of course, by a of giggling, shrieking, painted and girls—and at this point Jones' unorthodox.
"Buy me a drink, mister? And a dance, huh?"
"On your way, sister." He the aside. "I underground, an' you ain't got a thing I want."
Apparently that the girl was with a of "BOUNCER" in type, the up to the long and bar.
"Gimme a bottle of pineapple pop," he ordered bruskly, "an' a of Tellurian cigarettes—Sunshines."
"P-p-pine...?" The did not the word.
The were fast, but Costigan was faster. A hard took one in the plexus; a hard took the other so under the as to all but his neck. A started to a bung-starter, and himself through the air toward a table. Men, table, and drinks to the floor.
"I my own company an' I drink what I please," Jones announced, grittily. "Them ain't none, to speak of ..." His hard the room malevolently, "but I ain't in no mood an' the next that me will wind up in the repair shop, or maybe in the morgue. See?"
This of was much too much; a dozen to up on the misguided who had so the of all Eridan. Then, while six or seven upon police whistles, there was a of action too fast to be into events by the eye. Conway Costigan, one of the men with hands and the Patrol has known, was trying to keep himself alive; and he succeeded.
"What the goes on here?" a of voices yelled, and sixteen policemen—John Law did not travel in that district, but in platoons—swinging and saps, George Washington Jones out from the of the pile. He had and not a contusions, but no were and his skin was whole.
And since his of the was not only inadequate, but also in particulars from those of non-participating witnesses, he the of his in jail; a with which he was content.
The work—and time—went on. He in a mucker, a miner's pimp (which and Anglo-Saxon word means "helper" in parlance) a miner, a top-miner, and then—a long step up the ladder!—a shift-boss.
And then struck; suddenly, paralyzingly, as mine do. Loud-speakers briefly—"Explosion! Cave-in! Flood! Fire! Gas! Radiation! Damp!"—and expired. Short-circuits; there was no way of telling which, if any, of those were true.
The power failed, and the lights. The of air from valves, a noise which by its and and presence soon unheard, of its in and tone. And then, later, a jarring, was and heard, by the of and the sharper, of and steel. And the men, as men do under such conditions, wild; yelling, swearing, toward where, in the dark, each the to be.
It took a of for the shift-boss to out and up his battery-lamp; and three or four more seconds, and by of fists, feet, and a two-foot length of air-hose, to any of order. Four men were dead; but that wasn't too bad—considering.
"Up there! Under the wall!" he ordered, sharply. "That won't fall—unless the whole slips. Now, how many of you have got your on you? Twelve—out of twenty-six—what brains! Put on your masks. You without 'em can up here—you'll be safe for a while—I hope."
Then, presently: "There, that's all for now. I guess." He his light downward. The members no longer writhed; the and were still.
"That may be open, it goes through solid rock, not waste. I'll see. Wright, you're all in one piece, aren't you?"
"I so—yes."
"Take up here. I'll go to the drift. If the is open I'll give you a flash. Send the ones with down, one at a time. Take a jolly-bar and the out of who panicky again."
Jones was not as as he sounded: mine a terror which is and poignant. Nevertheless he the rise, it open, and signalled. Then, after orders, he the way along the dark and toward the Station; why the people on there had not done something with the of always there. The party some cave-ins, but nothing they not through.
The Station was also and dark. Jones, his head-lamp upon the panel, the glass, the door open, and pushed buttons. Lights on. Warning flared, and rang. The air-pump again its normal subdued, whirr. But the water-pump! Shuddering, clanking, groaning, it was to go out any second—but there wasn't a thing in the world Jones do about it—yet.
The Station itself, so and pillared with as to be little more than an equal of solid rock, was unharmed; but in it nothing lived. Four men and a woman—the nurse—were at their posts; the leads to the Station had been in such fashion that no had been given. And smoke, from the main tunnel, was by the minute. Jones another button; a foot-thick of asbestos, tungsten, and across the tunnel's opening. He briefly, pityingly, those who might be outside, but no to explore. If any lived, there were on the other of the fire-door.
The disappeared, the lights out, air-horns and into silence. The shift-boss, now the Superintendent of the whole Twelfth Level, his mask, the Station walkie-talkie, and a switch. He spoke, listened, spoke again then called a list of names—none of which any response.
"Wright, and you five others," out who be upon to keep their heads, "take these guns. Shoot if you have to, but not unless you have to. Have the clear the drift, just to through. You'll a shift-boss, with a of nineteen, up in Stope Sixty. Their is blocked. They've got light and power again now, and good air, and they're on it, but opening the from the top is a slow job. Wright, you a into it from the bottom. You others, work along the drift, clear to the last hole. Be sure that all the are open—check all the and holes—tell you alive to report to me here...."
"Aw, what good!" a man shrieked. "We're all anyway—I want water an'...."
"Shut up, fool!" There was a as of meeting flesh, the was stilled. "Plenty of water—tanks full of the stuff." A to the self-appointed and his head—toward the pump. "Too much water too soon, huh?"
"I wouldn't wonder—but busy!"
As his now and men disappeared, Jones up his and the setting of a dial.
"On top, somebody," he said crisply. "On top...."
"Oh, there's somebody alive in Twelve, after all!" a girl's voice in his ear. "Mr. Clancy! Mr. Edwards!"
"To with Clancy, and Edwards, too," Jones barked. "Gimme the Chief Engineer and the Head Surveyor, and 'em fast."
"Clancy speaking, Station Twelve." If Works Manager Clancy had that pointed remark, and he must have, he it. "Stanley and Emerson will be here in a moment. In the meantime, who's calling? I don't your voice, and it's been so long...."
"Jones. Shift-boss, Stope Fifty Nine. I had a little trouble here to the Station."
"What? Where's Pennoyer? And Riley? And...?"
"Dead. Everybody. Gas or damp. No warning."
"Not to turn on anything—not the purifiers?"
"Nothing."
"Where were you?"
"Up in the stope."
"Good God!" That news, to Clancy, was enough.
"But to with all that. What happened, and where?"
"A skip-load, and then a magazine, of high explosive, right at Station Seven—it's right at the main shaft, you know." Jones did not know, since he had been in that part of the mine, but he see the picture. "Main up to above Seven, and blocked. Number One at Six, Number Two at Seven—must have been a fault—But here's Chief Engineer Stanley." The manager, not too unwillingly, the microphone.
A came up and Jones his mouth-piece. "How about the holes?"
"Plugged solid, all four of 'em—by the vibro, clear up to Eleven."
"Thanks." Then, as soon as Stanley's voice came on:
"What I want to know is, why is this water-pump overloading? What's the circuit?"
"You must be ... yes, you are against too much head. Five above you are dead, you know, so...."
"Dead? Can't you anybody?"
"Not yet. So you're through on Eleven and Ten and so on up, and when your overload-relief opens...."
"Relief valve!" Jones almost screamed, "Can I dog the thing down?"
"No, it's internal."
"Christ, what a design—I eat a of iron and puke a pump than that!"
"When it opens," Stanley on, "the water will go through the by-pass into the sump. So you'd out one of the and...."
"Get conscious, fat-head!" Jones blazed. "What would we use for time? Get off the air—gimme Emerson!"
"Emerson speaking."
"Got your maps?"
"Yes."
"We got to a up to Eleven—fast—or drown. Can you give me the possible distance?"
"Can do." The Head Surveyor orders. "We'll have it for you in a minute. Thank God there was somebody there with a brain."
"It doesn't take super-human to push buttons."
"You'd be surprised. Your point on was very well taken—you won't have much time after the pump quits. When the water the Station...."
"Curtains. And it's all done now—running free and easy—recirculating. Hurry that dope!"
"Here it is now. Start at the point of Stope Fifty Nine. Repeat."
"Stope Fifty-Nine." Jones a hand as he the words; the tight-packed and ran. The shift-boss them, the walkie-talkie, an of pure at the merrily-humming water pump as he passed it.
"Thirty two from the vertical—anywhere thirty and thirty five."
"Thirty to thirty five off vertical."
"Direction—got a compass?"
"Yes."
"Set the on zero. Course two hundred seventy five degrees."
"Blue on zero. Course two seven five."
"Dex sixty nine point two zero feet. That'll put you into Eleven's class yard—so big you can't miss it."
"Distance sixty nine point two—that all? Fine! Maybe we'll make it, after all. They're a shaft, of course. From where?"
"About four miles in on Six. It'll take time."
"If we can up into Eleven we'll have all the time on the clock—it'll take a week or more to Twelve's stopes. But this is sure as going to be touch and go. And say, from the of the pump and the of the sump, will you give me the best you can of how much time we've got? I want at least an hour, but I'm I won't have it."
"Yes. I'll call you back."
The shift-boss his way through the of men and, the radio him, and up the rise.
"Wright!" he bellowed, the all up and the narrow tube. "You up there ahead of me?"
"Yeah!" that back.
"More men left than I thought—how many—half of 'em?"
"Just about."
"Good. Sort out the ones you got up there by trades." Then, when he had into the now stope, "Where are the timber-pimps?"
"Over there."
"Rustle timbers. Whatever you can and you it, it and it up here. Get some twelve-inch steel, too, six long. Timbermen, that off of the and start your right here. You muckers, a of to to the and up to the wall. Doze a sluice-way into that waste pocket there, so we won't ourselves up. Work fast, fellows, but make it solid—you know the it'll have to and what will if it gives."
They knew. They what they had to do and did it; furiously, but with and precision.
"How wide a you figurin' on, Supe?" the asked. "Eight to the hangin', anyway, huh?"
"Yes. I'll let you know in a minute."
The came in. "Forty one minutes is my best guess."
"From when?"
"From the time the pump failed."
"That was four minutes ago—nearer five. And five more we can start cutting. Forty one less ten is thirty one. Thirty one into sixty nine point two goes...."
"Two point two three minute, my slip-stick says."
"Thanks. Wright, what would you say is the biggest we can cut in this of at two and a a minute?"
"Um ... m ... m". The his chin. "That's a one, boss. You'll close to a hundred of air to the on plain cuttin'—that's two hundred and a quarter. But without a to pimp for 'er, a can't take that of air—she'll herself to a she a foot. An' with a riggin' she's got to make near a cut—seven figger—so any way you look at it you ain't goin' to cut no two to the minute."
"I was you wouldn't check my figures, but you do. So we'll cut five feet. Saw your accordingly. We'll that by hand."
Wright his dubiously. "We don't want to die here any more than you do, boss, so we'll do our damndest—but how in do you you can her to her work?"
"Rig a yoke. Cut a up for and padding. It'll pound, but a man can almost anything, in shifts, if he's got to or die."
And for a time—two minutes, to be exact, which the up and out a of over five deep—things very well indeed. Two men, of the three, the rotary; that is, they the pneumatic walking which not only the in a path, but also it against the with a and pressure, while almost under a of over twenty thousand pounds.
An hand a signal—voice was useless—up! A was flipped; a huge, flat, arose; a into place, and as that big down. Up—again! Up—a third time! Eighteen seconds—less than one-third of a minute—ten gained!
And, while it was not easy, two men the burley—in one-minute shifts. As has been intimated, this machine "pimped" for the rotary. It waited on it, to its every need with a of purpose to any devotion. It the rotary's teeth, it its linkages, it its ports, it its of debris, it even—and this is a to anyone who not know the of and the of ultra-special steels—it changed, while in full operation, the rotary's diamond-tipped cutters.
Both and were efficient, but neither was either or gentle. In their moments they and and yelled, producing a of in which nothing than a cannon-shot have been heard. But when, in the rotary's teeth, the burley's "fingers" were into and through the solid rock—a of to machines—the of cannot be imagined, to say nothing of being described.
And always out of rock, in from up to as big as a fist.
As the and the higher, the work to slow down. They to the time they had gained. There were of men, but in that narrow there was not room for men to work. Even through that of and the their up there, but they not place it fast enough—there were too many other men in the way. One of them had to out. Since one man not possibly the rotary, one man would have to the burley.
They it, one after another. No soap. It them flat. The rotary, in every tooth and and under the of two hundred thirty of air, and slid. The now had room—but nothing to do. And Jones, who had been at his and the walkie-talkie for minutes, at watch and tape. Three minutes left, and over eight to go.
"Gimme that armor!" he rasped, and the blocks. "Open the air wide open—give 'er the whole two-fifty! Get down, Mac—I'll take it the of the way!"
He put his to the yoke, his feet, and heaved. The burley, and and clamoring, to work—both ways—God, what punishment! The rotary, free and clear, more than ever. An hand his leg. Lift! He that foot, set it two higher. The other one. Four inches. Six. One foot. Two. Three. Lord of the ancients! Was this lifetime of only one minute? Or wasn't he her—had the thing stopped cutting? No, it was still cutting—the were against and off of his as and as as ever; he sense, than feel, the fashion in which the of were to keep those high-stepping in motion.
No, it had been only one minute. Twice that long yet to go. God! Nothing be that brutal—a elephant couldn't take it—but by all the gods of space and all the in hell, he'd with it until that through. And grimly, doggedly, toward the end nine-tenths unconsciously, Lensman Conway Costigan with it.
And in the so below, a new and voice from the speaker.
"Jones! God it, Jones, answer me! If Jones isn't there, somebody else answer me—anybody!"
"Yes, sir?" Wright was to answer that call, but more not to.
"Jones? This is Clancy."
"No, sir. Not Jones. Wright, sir—top miner."
"Where's Jones?"
"Up in the sag, sir. He's the burley—alone."
"Alone! Hell's 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 it—put somebody else on it—I won't have him killed, it!"
"He's the only one to it, sir, but I'll send up word." Word up language, and came 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 is through or the juice goes off, sir."
A blast of from the speaker, of such that the Wright the walkie-talkie the waste-chute, and in the same the through.
Dazed, groggy, from his effort, Jones through the heavy, steel-braced of his while the set a more of and the walked itself and the up and out of the hole. He out, and as he at the of light from the sag, his to rise.
"Wha's the idea of that to us like that?" he babbled. "We had an' of time—didn't have to kill ourselves—damn water ain't got there yet—wha's the big...." He weakly, and took one step, and the lights out. The surveyor's had been impossibly, close. They had had a little time; but it was very easily in seconds.
And Jones, logical to the end in a way, in the almost darkness, and wobbled, and thought. If a man couldn't see anything with his wide open, he was either or unconscious. He wasn't blind, therefore he must be and not know it. He sighed, and gratefully, and collapsed.
Battery lights were soon reconnected, and that they had through. There was no more panic. And, the shift-boss had full consciousness, he was walking the toward Station Eleven.
There is no need to upon the of that and affair. Level after level was activated; and, since in is than downward, the two parties met on the Eighth Level. Half of the men who would otherwise have died were saved, and—much more from the of Uranium, Inc.—the and of the biggest and mine in existence, of being out of production for a year or more, would be in full operation in a of weeks.
And George Washington Jones, still a from his ordeal, was called into the office. But he arrived:
"I'm going to make him Assistant Works Manager," Clancy announced.
"I think not."
"But listen, Mr. Isaacson—please! How do you me to up a staff if you every good man I away from me?"
"You didn't 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, it wordlessly. He that Q was—
DEPARTMENT Q.
