seen’im do it” Purves 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, Purves 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’ to get the boots put to ya. You ain’t got a prayer. It’s four
to three, see?”
“Hold it, Purve-I said hold it!” McGuire shouted, grabbing the miner’s right arm with both
bands and hanging on-and Purves 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-steelrimmed
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. Purves, 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. “No
A,, 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 bell you will!” Shields snarled, leaping to his feet. “We’re gettin’ tha hell outa here
right now!”
“Mr. Purves,” 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 Purves touched him, exclaiming as he (lid 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. Purves, 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. Purves 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.”