Chapter 14

The employment office of any concern with personnel running into the hundreds of thousands is a busy place indeed, even when its plants are all on Tellus and its working conditions are as nearly ideal as such things can be made. When that firm’s business is Colonial, however, and its working conditions are only a couple of degrees removed from slavery, procurement of personnel is a first-magnitude problem; the Personnel Department, like Alice in Wonderland, must run as fast as it can go in order to stay where it is. Thus the “Help Wanted” advertisements of Uranium, Incorporated covered the planet Earth with blandishment and guile; and thus for twelve hours of every day and for seven days of every week the employment offices of Uranium, Inc. were filled with men--mostly the scum of Earth.

There were, of course, exceptions; one of which strode through the motley group of waiting men and thrust a card through the “Information” wicket. He was a chunky-looking individual, appearing shorter than his actual five feet nine because of a hundred and ninety pounds of weight--even though every pound was placed exactly where it would do the most good. He looked--well, slouchy--and his mien was sullen.

“Birkenfeld--by appointment,” he growled through the wicket, in a voice which could have been pleasantly deep.

The coolly efficient blonde manipulated plugs. “Mr. George W. Jones, sir, by appointment ... Thank you, sir,” and Mr. Jones was escorted into Mr. Birkenfeld’s private office.

“Have a chair, please, Mr ... er ... Jones.”

“So you know?”

“Yes. It is seldom that a man of your education, training, and demonstrated ability applies to us for employment of his own initiative, and a very thorough investigation is indicated.”

“What am I here for, then?” the visitor demanded, truculently. “You could have turned me down by mail. Everybody else has, since I got out.”

“You are here because we who operate on the frontiers cannot afford to pass judgment upon a man because of his past, unless that past precludes the probability of a useful future. Yours does not; and in some cases, such as yours, we are very deeply interested in the future.” The official’s eyes drilled deep.

Conway Costigan had never been in the limelight. On the contrary, he had made inconspicuousness a passion and an art. Even in such scenes of violence as that which had occurred at the Ambassadors’ Ball he managed to remain unnoticed. His Lens had never been visible. No one except Lensmen--and Clio and Jill--knew that he had one; and Lensmen--and Clio and Jill--did not talk. Although he was calmly certain that this Birkenfeld was not an ordinary interviewer, he was equally certain that the investigators of Uranium, Inc. had found out exactly and only what the Patrol had wanted them to find.

“So?” Jones’ bearing altered subtly, and not because of the penetrant eyes. “That’s all I want--a chance. I’ll start at the bottom, as far down as you say.”

“We advertise, and truthfully, that opportunity on Eridan is unlimited.” Birkenfeld chose his words with care. “In your case, opportunity will be either absolutely unlimited or zero, depending entirely upon yourself.”

“I see.” Dumbness had not been included in the fictitious Mr. Jones’ background. “You don’t need to draw a blue-print.”

“You’ll do, I think.” The interviewer nodded in approval. “Nevertheless, I must make our position entirely clear. If the slip was--shall we say accidental?--you will go far with us. If you try to play false, you will not last long and you will not be missed.”

“Fair enough.”

“Your willingness to start at the bottom is commendable, and it is a fact that those who come up through the ranks make the best executives; in our line at least. Just how far down are you willing to start?”

“How low do you go?”

“A mucker, I think would be low enough; and, from your build, and obvious physical strength, the logical job.”

“Mucker?”

“One who skoufers ore in the mine. Nor can we make any exception in your case as to the routines of induction and transportation.”

“Of course not.”

“Take this slip to Mr. Calkins, in Room 6217. He will run you through the mill.”

And that night, in an obscure boarding-house, Mr. George Washington Jones, after a meticulous Service Special survey in every direction, reached a large and somewhat grimy hand into a screened receptacle in his battered suitcase and touched a Lens.

“Clio?” The lovely mother of their wonderful children appeared in his mind. “Made it, sweetheart, no suspicion 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 tone was light, but she could not conceal a stark background of fear. “Oh, I wish I could go, too!”

“I wish you could, Tootie.” The linked minds flashed back to what the two had done together in the red opacity of Nevian murk; on Nevia’s mighty, watery globe--but that kind of thinking 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 get a baby-sitter!”

It is strange that the fundamental operations of working metalliferous veins have changed so little throughout the ages. Or is it? Ores came into being with the crusts of the planets; they change appreciably only with the passage of geologic time. Ancient mines, of course, could not go down very deep or follow a seam very far; there was too much water and too little air. The steam engine helped, in degree if not in kind, by removing water and supplying air. Tools improved--from the simple metal bar through pick and shovel and candle, through drill and hammer and low explosive and acetylene, through Sullivan slugger and high explosive and electrics, through skoufer and rotary and burley and sourceless glow, to the complex gadgetry of today--but what, fundamentally, is the difference? Men still crawl, snake-like, to where the metal is. Men still, by dint of sheer brawn, jackass the precious stuff out to where our vaunted automatics can get hold of it. And men still die, in horribly unknown fashions and in callously recorded numbers, in the mines which supply the stuff upon which our vaunted culture rests.

But to resume the thread of narrative, George Washington Jones went to Eridan as a common laborer; a mucker. He floated down beside the skip--a “skip” is a mine elevator--some four thousand eight hundred feet. He rode an ore-car a horizontal distance of approximately eight miles to the brilliantly-illuminated cavern which was the Station of the Twelfth and lowest level. He was assigned to the bunk in which he would sleep for the next fifteen nights: “Fifteen down and three up,” ran the standard underground contract.

He walked four hundred yards, yelled “Nothing Down!” and inched his way up a rise--in many places scarcely wider than his shoulders--to the stope some three hundred feet above. He reported to the miner who was to be his immediate boss and bent his back to the skoufer--which, while not resembling a shovel at all closely, still meant hard physical labor. He already knew ore--the glossy, sub-metallic, pitchy black luster of uraninite or pitchblende; the yellows of autunite and carnotite; the variant and confusing greens of tobernite. No values went from Jones’ skoufer into the heavily-timbered, steel-braced waste-pockets of the stope; very little base rock went down the rise.

He became accustomed to the work; got used to breathing the peculiarly lifeless, dry, oily compressed air. And when, after a few days, his stentorian “Nothing Down!” called forth a “Nothing but a little fine stuff!” and a handful of grit and pebbles, he knew that he had been accepted into the undefined, unwritten, and unofficial, yet nevertheless intensely actual, fellowship of hard-rock men. He belonged.

He knew that he must abandon his policy of invisibility; and, after several days of thought, he decided how he would do it. Hence, upon the first day of his “up” period, he joined his fellows in their descent upon one of the rawest, noisiest dives of Danapolis. The men were met, of course, by a bevy of giggling, shrieking, garishly painted and strongly perfumed girls--and at this point young Jones’ behavior became exceedingly unorthodox.

“Buy me a drink, mister? And a dance, huh?”

“On your way, sister.” He brushed the importunate wench aside. “I get enough exercise underground, an’ you ain’t got a thing I want.”

Apparently unaware that the girl was exchanging meaningful glances with a couple of husky characters labelled “BOUNCER” in billposter type, the atypical mucker strode up to the long and ornate bar.

“Gimme a bottle of pineapple pop,” he ordered bruskly, “an’ a package of Tellurian cigarettes--Sunshines.”

“P-p-pine... ?” The surprised bartender did not finish the word.

The bouncers were fast, but Costigan was faster. A hard knee took one in the solar plexus; a hard elbow took the other so savagely under the chin as to all but break his neck. A bartender started to swing a bung-starter, and found himself flying through the air toward a table. Men, table, and drinks crashed to the floor.

“I pick my own company an’ I drink what I damn please,” Jones announced, grittily. “Them lunkers ain’t hurt none, to speak of...” His hard eyes swept the room malevolently, “but I ain’t in no gentle mood an’ the next jaspers that tackle me will wind up in the repair shop, or maybe in the morgue. See?”

This of course was much too much; a dozen embattled roughnecks leaped to mop up on the misguided wight who had so impugned the manhood of all Eridan. Then, while six or seven bartenders blew frantic blasts upon police whistles, there was a flurry of action too fast to be resolved into consecutive events by the eye. Conway Costigan, one of the fastest men with hands and feet the Patrol has ever known, was trying to keep himself alive; and he succeeded.

“What the hell goes on here?” a chorus of raucously authoritative voices yelled, and sixteen policemen--John Law did not travel singly in that district, but in platoons--swinging clubs and saps, finally hauled George Washington Jones out from the bottom of the pile. He had sundry abrasions and not a few contusions, but no bones were broken and his skin was practically whole.

And since his version of the affair was not only inadequate, but also differed in important particulars from those of several non-participating witnesses, he spent the rest of his holiday in jail; a development with which he was quite content.

The work--and time--went on. He became in rapid succession a head mucker, a miner’s pimp (which short and rugged Anglo-Saxon word means simply “helper” in underground parlance) a miner, a top-miner, and then--a long step up the ladder!--a shift-boss.

And then disaster struck; suddenly, paralyzingly, as mine disasters do. Loud-speakers blared briefly--”Explosion! Cave-in! Flood! Fire! Gas! Radiation! Damp!”--and expired. Short-circuits; there was no way of telling which, if any, of those dire warnings were true.

The power failed, and the lights. The hiss of air from valves, a noise which by its constant and unvarying and universal presence soon becomes unheard, became noticeable because of its diminution in volume and tone. And then, seconds later, a jarring, shuddering rumble was felt and heard, accompanied by the snapping of shattered timbers and the sharper, utterly unforgettable shriek of rending and riven steel. And the men, as men do under such conditions, went wild; yelling, swearing, leaping toward where, in the rayless dark, each thought the rise to be.

It took a couple of seconds for the shift-boss to break out and hook up his emergency battery-lamp; and three or four more seconds, and by dint of fists, feet, and a two-foot length of air-hose, to restore any degree of order. Four men were dead; but that wasn’t too bad--considering.

“Up there! Under the hanging wall!” he ordered, sharply. “That won’t fall--unless the whole mountain slips. Now, how many of you jaspers have got your emergency kits on you? Twelve--out of twenty-six--what brains! Put on your masks. You without ‘em can stay up here--you’ll be safe for a while--I hope.”

Then, presently: “There, that’s all for now. I guess.” He flashed his light downward. The massive steel members no longer writhed; the crushed and tortured timbers were still.

“That rise may be open, it goes through solid rock, not waste. I’ll see. Wright, you’re all in one piece, aren’t you?”

“I guess so--yes.”

“Take charge up here. I’ll go down to the drift. If the rise is open I’ll give you a flash. Send the ones with masks down, one at a time. Take a jolly-bar and bash the brains out of anybody who gets panicky again.”

Jones was not as brave as he sounded: mine disasters carry a terror which is uniquely and peculiarly poignant. Nevertheless he went down the rise, found it open, and signalled. Then, after issuing brief orders, he led the way along the dark and silent drift toward the Station; wondering profanely why the people on duty there had not done something with the wealth of emergency equipment always ready there. The party found some cave-ins, but nothing they could not dig through.

The Station was also silent and dark. Jones, flashing his head-lamp upon the emergency panel, smashed the glass, wrenched the door open, and pushed buttons. Lights flashed on. Warning signals flared, bellowed and rang. The rotary air-pump began again its normal subdued, whickering whirr. But the water-pump! Shuddering, clanking, groaning, it was threatening to go out any second--but there wasn’t a thing in the world Jones could do about it--yet.

The Station itself, so buttressed and pillared with alloy steel as to be little more compressible than an equal volume of solid rock, was unharmed; but in it nothing lived. Four men and a woman--the nurse--were stiffly motionless at their posts; apparently the leads to the Station had been blasted in such fashion that no warning whatever had been given. And smoke, billowing inward from the main tunnel, was growing thicker by the minute. Jones punched another button; a foot-thick barrier of asbestos, tungsten, and vitrified refractory slid smoothly across the tunnel’s opening. He considered briefly, pityingly, those who might be outside, but felt no urge to explore. If any lived, there were buttons on the other side of the fire-door.

The eddying smoke disappeared, the flaring lights winked out, air-horns and bells relapsed into silence. The shift-boss, now apparently the Superintendent of the whole Twelfth Level, removed his mask, found the Station walkie-talkie, and snapped a switch. He spoke, listened, spoke again then called a list of names--none of which brought any response.

“Wright, and you five others,” picking out miners who could be depended upon to keep their heads, “take these guns. Shoot if you have to, but not unless you have to. Have the muckers clear the drift, just enough to get through. You’ll find a shift-boss, with a crew of nineteen, up in Stope Sixty. Their rise is blocked. They’ve got light and power again now, and good air, and they’re working on it, but opening the rise from the top is a damned slow job. Wright, you throw a chippie into it from the bottom. You others, work back along the drift, clear to the last glory hole. Be sure that all the rises are open--check all the stopes and glory holes--tell everybody you find alive to report to me here...”

“Aw, what good!” a man shrieked. “We’re all goners anyway--I want water an’...”

“Shut up, fool!” There was a sound as of fist meeting flesh, the shriek was stilled. “Plenty of water--tanks full of the stuff.” A grizzled miner turned to the self-appointed boss and twitched his head--toward the laboring pump. “Too damn much water too soon, huh?”