Читать книгу Subspace Explorers - Edward Elmer Smith - Страница 6

Table of Contents

In comparison with silicon or aluminum, which together make up almost thirty six percent of the Earth’s crust, copper is a very scarce metal indeed, amounting to only a very small fraction of one percent. Yet it is one of the oldest-worked and most widely useful of all metals, having been in continuous demand for well over six thousand Tellurian years.

Yet of all the skills of man, that of mining cuprous ores had perhaps advanced the least. There had been some progress, of course. Miners of old could not go down very deep or go in very far; there was too much water and not enough air. The steam engine helped; it removed water and supplied air. Electricity helped still more. Tools also had improved; instead of wooden sticks and animal-fat candles there was a complex gadgetry of air drills and electric saws and explosives, and there was plenty of light.

Basically, however, since automation could not be economically applied to tiny, twisting, erratic veins of ore, the situation remained unchanged. Men still crawled and wriggled to where the copper was. Brawny men, by sheer power of muscle, still jackassed the heavy stuff out to where the automatics could get hold of it.

And men still died, in various horrible fashions and in callously recorded numbers, in the mines that were trying to satisfy the insatiable demand for the red metal that is one of the prime bases upon which the technology of all civilization rests.

And the United Copper Miners, under the leadership of its president, Burley Hoadman, refused to tolerate any advancement whatever in automation. Also, UCM was approaching, and rapidly, its goal—the complete unionization of every copper mine of the Western Hemisphere of Earth.

A few months before the events recorded in the preceding chapter, then, in the Little Gem, a comparatively small copper mine in Colorado, a mile and a half down and some six miles in, Top Miner Grant Purvis half-lay-half-crouched behind a two-hundred-fifty-pound Sullivan Slugger air-drill operating under one hundred seventy five pounds per square inch of compressed air. He was a big man, and immensely strong. He was six feet two inches tall; most of his two hundred thirty five pounds was hard meat, gristle, and bone. His leather-padded right knee was jammed against the wall of his tiny work-space; the hobnail-studded sole of his left boot was jammed even more solidly into a foot-hole cut into the hard rock of the floor. With his right shoulder and both huge hands he was holding the Sullivan to its work—the work of driving an inch-and-a-quarter steel into the face. And the monstrous, bellowing, thundering, shrieking Slugger, even though mounted upon a short and very heavy bar, sent visible tremors through the big man’s whole body, clear down to his solidly-anchored feet.

In his shockingly cramped quarters Purvis changed steel; shifted the position of his Sullivan’s mounting bar; cut new foot-holes; kept on at his man-killing task until the set of powder-holes was in. Then he dismounted the heavy drill and, wriggling backwards, lugged it and its appurtenances out into the main stope to make room for the powderman.

As he straightened up, half paralyzed by the position and the strain of his recent labors, another big man lunged roughly against him.

“Wot tha hell—sock me, willya?” the man roared, and swung his steel-backed timberman’s glove against Purvis’ mouth and jaw.

Purvis went down.

“Watcha tryin’ ta pull off, Frank?” the shift-boss yelled, rushing up and jerking his thumb toward the rise. “You know better’n that—fightin’ underground. You’re fired—go on top an’ get yer time.”

“Wha’d’ya mean, fired?” Frank growled. “He started it, the crumb. He slugged me first.”

“You’re a goddam liar,” the powderman spoke up, setting his soft-leather bag of low explosive carefully down against the foot of the hanging wall. “I seen it. Purve didn’t do nothin’. Not a goddam thing. Besides, he wasn’t in no shape to. He didn’t lift a finger. You socked him fer nothin’.”

“Oh, yeah?” Frank sneered. “Stone blind all of a sudden, I guess? I leave it to tha rest of ’em—” waving a massive arm at the two muckers and the electrician, now standing idly by, “—if he didn’t sock me first. They all seen it.”

All three nodded, and the electrician said, positively, “Sure Purve socked him first. We all seen ’im do it.”

Purvis struggled to his feet. He shook off a glove, wiped his bleeding mouth, and stared for a moment at the blood-smeared back of his hand. Then, and still without a word, he bent over and picked up a three-foot length of inch-and-a-quarter steel.

“Hold it, Purve—hold it!” The shift-boss put both hands against the big man’s chest and pushed, and the atrocious weapon dropped with a clang to the hard-rock floor. “Thass better. They’s somethin’ damn screwy here. It just don’t jibe.”

He crossed over to his telephone and dialed. “Say boss, what do I do when I fire a nape fer startin’ a fight underground an’ he won’t go out on top? An’ three other bastards say somethin’ I saw good an’ plain with my own eyes didn’t hap ... okay, I’ll hold ... okay ... yeah ... but listen. Mr. Speers’ office! Thass takin’ it awful high up, ain’t it, just to fire a nogoodnik that ... okay, okay, now you hold it.” Turning his head, the shift-boss said, “They want us all up on top an’ they wanta know if you wanta go up under yer own air or will they send down some guards an’ drag y’all tha way up there by yer goddam feet?”

They did not want to be dragged, so Shift Boss McGuire said, into the phone, “Okay, we’re on our way up,” and hung up.

The seven men wriggled down the rise—the steeply-sloping passage, about the diameter of a barrel, that was the only opening into the stope—to the tributary tunnel some three hundred feet below. As they were walking along this tunnel toward the main drift and its electric cars, Purvis said:

“You said it, Mac, about it’s bein’ a hell of a long ways up to have to take firin’ a louse like him. What’d they say?”

“Nothin’,” McGuire said. “Nothin’ at all.”

“The higher the better,” the electrician—who had done most of the talking up in the stope—growled. “The bigger the man we can get up to with this thing, the harder you three finkin’ bastards are goin’ ta get the boots put to ya. You ain’t got a prayer. It’s four ta three, see?”

“Hold it, Purve—I said hold it!” McGuire shouted, grabbing the miner’s right arm with both hands and hanging on—and Purvis did stop his savage motion. “Like I said, Purve, this whole deal stinks. It don’t add up—noways. An’ what surprised me most was that nobody up on top was surprised at all.”

“Huh?” the electrician demanded, with a sudden change in manner and expression. “Why not? Why wasn’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the shift-boss replied, quietly, “but we’ll maybe find out when we get up there. But I’m tellin’ you four apes somethin’ right now. Shut up and stay shut up. If any one of you opens his trap just one more time I’ll let Purve here push a mouthful of teeth down his goddam throat.”

Wherefore the rest of the trip to the office of Superintendent Speers, the Big Noise of the Little Gem, was made in silence.

Charles Speers was a well-built, well-preserved man nearing sixty. His hair, although more white than brown, was still thick and bushy. His eyes, behind stainless-steel-rimmed trifocals, were a clear, sharp gray. His narrow, close-clipped mustache was brown. When his visitors were all seated he pushed a button on his desk, looked at the shift-boss and said:

“Mr. McGuire, please tell me what happened; exactly as you saw it happen.” McGuire told him and he looked at the powderman. “Mr. Bailey, I realize that no two eyewitnesses ever see any event in precisely the same way, but have you anything of significance to add to or subtract from Mr. McGuire’s statement of fact?”

“No, sir. That’s the way it went.”

“Mr. Purvis, did you or did you not strike the first blow?”

“I did not, sir. I’ll swear to that. I didn’t lift a finger—not ’til after, I mean. Then I lifted a piece of steel, but Mac here stopped me before I could hit him with it.”

“Thank you. This is interesting. Very.” Speers’ voice was as clipped as his mustache. “Now, Mr. Grover C. Shields—or whatever your real name may be—as a non-participating witness and as spokesman apparent for the majority of those present at the scene of violence, please give me your version of the affair.”

“They’re lyin’ in their teeth, all three of ’em,” the electrician growled, sullenly. “But what’s that ‘real name’ crack supposed to mean? An’ say, are ya puttin’ all this crap on a record?”

“Certainly. Why not? However, this is not a court of law and you are not under oath, so go ahead.”

“Not me. Not by a damsight, you fine-feathered slicker. Not without a mouthpiece, an’ nobody else does, neither.”

“That’s smart of you. And you’re still sticking to the argot, eh, Mr.—ah—Shields?” The mine superintendent’s smile was exactly as humorous as the edge of a cut-throat razor. “Such camouflage is of course to be expected. Come over here to the desk, please. I would like to glance at your hands.”

“Like hell you will!” Shields snarled, leaping to his feet. “We’re gettin’ tha hell outa here right now!”

“Mr. Purvis,” Speers said, quietly, “I would like to look at that man’s hands. Don’t break him up any more than is necessary, but I want those hands flat on this desk, palms up.”

Since Shields was already on his feet, he reached the desk and spread his hands out flat before Purvis touched him, exclaiming as he did so, “An’ that’s on record, too, wise guy!”

“I’m afraid it may not be,” Speers said, gently, shaking his head. “This machine is not a new model; it misses an item occasionally. But you see what I mean?” Speers paused, and from the ceiling above there came the almost inaudible click of a camera shutter. “When did those hands ever do any real work? Resume your seat, please.” The alleged electrician did so. “I have here seven personnel cards, from which I will read certain data into the record. George J. McGuire, Shift Boss, length of service twenty four years, black spots—demerits, that is—nineteen. Clinton F. Bailey, Powderman, fifteen years, ten demerits. Grant H. Purvis, Top Miner, twelve years, eight demerits. Each of these three has four or five times as many stars as black spots.

“On the other hand, John J. Smith, Mucker, forty three days and thirty three demerits. Thomas J. Jones, Mucker, twenty nine days and thirty one demerits. Frank D. Ormsby, Timberman, twelve days and twenty demerits. Grover C. Shields, Electrician, five days and eleven demerits. There are no stars in this group. These data speak for themselves. The discharge of Ormsby is sustained. I hereby discharge the other three—Sheilds, Smith, and Jones—myself. You four go back, change your clothes, pick up your own property, turn in company property, and leave. Your termination papers and checks will be in the mail tonight. Get out.”

They got.

Speers pressed a button and his secretary, a gray-haired, chilled-steel virgin of fifty, came in. “Yes, sir?”

“Please take Mr. Purvis there,” he pointed, “over across and let the doctors look at him.”

“Oh, this ain’t nothin’ ...” the miner began.

“It would be if I had it.” Speers smiled; a genuine smile. “You do exactly what the doctors tell you to do. Okay?”

“Okay, sir. Thanks.”

“And Miss Mills, he’s on full time until they let him go back to work full time.”

“Yes, sir. Come with me, young man,” and she led the big miner out of the room.

Still smiling, Speers turned to the two remaining men. “Are you wondering what this is all about, or do you know?”

“I could maybe guess, if there’d been any UCM organizers around,” McGuire said, “but I ain’t heard of any. Have you, Clint?”

“Uh-uh.” The powderman shook his head. “I been kinda expectin’ some, but there ain’t been even a rumble yet.”

“Those four men were undoubtedly UCM goons. They will claim that Ormsby was assaulted and that all four of them were fired because of talking about unionization—for merely sounding out our people’s attitude toward unionization. Tomorrow, or the next day at latest, the UCM will bottle us up tight with a picket line.”

“But it’d be a goddam lie!” Bailey protested.

“Sure it would,” McGuire agreed. “But they’ve pulled some awful raw stuff before now an’ got away with it. D’you think they can get away with it here, Mr. Speers?”

“That’s the jackpot question. With the Labor Relations Board, yes. Higher up, it depends ... but I want to do a little sounding out myself. When we close down, we’ll try to place everyone somewhere, of course; but in the event of a very long shut-down, McGuire, how would you like to go out to one of the outplanets?”

“I couldn’t. I don’t know nothin’ but copper-minin’.”

“I mean at copper mining.”

“Huh?” The shift-boss was so amazed as to forget temporarily that he was talking to the Big Boss. “They ain’t none. They ain’t gonna be none. The UCM won’t stand fer none.”

“But suppose there were some?”

“You mean a knock-down-’n’-drag-out fight with UCM?”

“Precisely.”

McGuire pondered this shockingly revolutionary thought for a long minute, his callused right palm rasping against the stiff stubble on his chin. “I still couldn’t,” he decided, finally. “Not just ’cause the union’d win, neither. I like it a hell of a lot better here on Earth. If I was young an’ single, maybe. But I ain’t so young yet—” he was all of forty two years old, “—an’ three of tha kids’re still home yet an’ my old woman’d raise hell an’ put a chunk under it. Besides, me an’ her both like ta know where we’re at. So when they get us organized I’ll join tha union an’ work ’til I’m sixty an’ then retire an’ live easy on my pension an’ old-age benefits. Thataway I’ll know all tha time just where I’m at.”

“I see.” Speers’ voice was almost a sigh. “And you, Bailey?”

“Not fer me,” the powderman said, with no hesitation at all. “George chirped it—” he jerked his left thumb at the shift-boss, “—about wantin’ ta know where yer at. I got nothin’ much against tha union. It costs, but between it an’ tha outplanets I’ll take the UCM any day in tha week. Hoady Hoadman takes care of his men, an’ out on tha outplanets ya never know what’s gonna happen. Yer takin’ awful big chances all tha time. Too goddam big.”

“I see, and thanks, both of you. Call Personnel about replacements and go ahead as usual—until you run into a picket line. That is all for now.”

As the two men left Speers’ office he flipped the switch of his squawk box. “Get me GalMet, please. Maynard’s FirSec, Miss Champ ...”

“Miss Champion!” The switchboard girl committed the almost incredible offense of interrupting the Super. “Herself?”

“Herself,” Speers said, dryly. “As I was about to say, the password in this case is as follows: ‘Gem—Little—Operation’. In that order, please.”

“Oh—excuse me, sir, please. I’ll get right at it.”

It took seven minutes, but finally Miss Champion’s face appeared upon Speers’ screen; a face startlingly young and startlingly comely to be that of one of the top FirSecs of all Earth.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Speers.” Her contralto voice was as smooth and as rich as whipping cream. “It has broken, then?”

“Yes. Four men made themselves so obnoxious that we had to discharge them just now. There has been no talk whatever of unionization as yet, but I expect a picket line tomorrow.”

“Thanks for letting us know so promptly, Mr. Speers. I can’t get at him myself for fifteen minutes or so yet, but I’ll tell him at the earliest possible moment.”

“That’ll be fine, Miss Champion. Good-bye.”