First Lensman by E. E. Smith (epub e ink reader .TXT) 📕

“What I want to know is, why is this damned water-pump overloading? What’s the circuit?”

“You must be⁠ ⁠… yes, you are pumping against too much head. Five levels above you are dead, you know, so.⁠ ⁠…”

“Dead? Can’t you raise anybody?”

“Not yet. So you’re pumping through dead boosters on Eleven and Ten and so on up, and when your overload-relief valve opens.⁠ ⁠…”

“Relief valve!” Jones almost screamed, “Can I dog the damn thing down?”

“No, it’s internal.”

“Christ, what a design⁠—I could eat a handful of iron filings and puke a better emergency pump than that!”

“When it opens,” Stanley went stolidly on, “the water will go through the bypass back into the sump. So you’d better rod out one of the glory holes and.⁠ ⁠…”

“Get conscious, fathead!” Jones blazed. “What would we use for time? Get off the air⁠—gimme Emerson!”

“Emerson speaking.”

“Got your maps?”

“Yes.”

“We got to run a sag up to Eleven⁠—fast⁠—or drown. Can you give me the shortest possible distance?”

“Can do.” The Head Surveyor snapped orders. “We’ll have it for you in a minute. Thank God there was somebody down there with a brain.”

“It doesn’t take superhuman intelligence to push buttons.”

“You’d be surprised. Your point on glory holes was very well taken⁠—you won’t have much time after the pump quits. When the water reaches the Station.⁠ ⁠…”

“Curtains. And it’s all done now⁠—running free and easy⁠—recirculating. Hurry that dope!”

“Here it is now. Start at the highest point of Stope Fifty Nine. Repeat.”

“Stope Fifty-Nine.” Jones waved a furious hand as he shouted the words; the tight-packed miners turned and ran. The shift-boss followed them, carrying the walkie-talkie, aiming an exasperated kick of pure frustration at the merrily-humming water pump as he passed it.

“Thirty two degrees from the vertical⁠—anywhere between thirty and thirty five.”

“Thirty to thirty five off vertical.”

“Direction⁠—got a compass?”

“Yes.”

“Set the blue 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 sinking a shaft, of course. From where?”

“About four miles in on Six. It’ll take time.”

“If we can get up into Eleven we’ll have all the time on the clock⁠—it’ll take a week or more to flood Twelve’s stopes. But this sag is sure as hell going to be touch and go. And say, from the throw of the pump and the volume of the sump, will you give me the best estimate you can of how much time we’ve got? I want at least an hour, but I’m afraid I won’t have it.”

“Yes. I’ll call you back.”

The shift-boss elbowed his way through the throng of men and, dragging the radio behind him, wriggled and floated up the rise.

“Wright!” he bellowed, the echoes resounding deafeningly all up and down the narrow tube. “You up there ahead of me?”

“Yeah!” that worthy bellowed 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 emerged into the now brilliantly illuminated stope, “Where are the timber-pimps?”

“Over there.”

“Rustle timbers. Whatever you can find and wherever you find it, grab it and bring it up here. Get some twelve-inch steel, too, six feet long. Timbermen, grab that stuff off of the face and start your staging right here. You muckers, rig a couple of skoufers to throw muck to bury the base and checkerwork up to the hanging wall. Doze a sluiceway down into that waste pocket there, so we won’t clog ourselves up. Work fast, fellows, but make it solid⁠—you know the load it’ll have to carry and what will happen if it gives.”

They knew. They knew what they had to do and did it; furiously, but with care and precision.

“How wide a sag you figurin’ on, Supe?” the boss timberman asked. “Eight foot checkerwork to the hangin,’ anyway, huh?”

“Yes. I’ll let you know in a minute.”

The surveyor 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 before we can start cutting. Forty one less ten is thirty one. Thirty one into sixty nine point two goes.⁠ ⁠…”

“Two point two three feet per minute, my slip-stick says.”

“Thanks. Wright, what would you say is the biggest sag we can cut in this kind of rock at two and a quarter feet a minute?”

“Um⁠ ⁠… m⁠ ⁠… m.” The miner scratched his whiskery chin. “That’s a tough one, boss. You’ll hafta figure damn close to a hundred pounds of air to the foot on plain cuttin’⁠—that’s two hundred and a quarter. But without a burley to pimp for ’er, a rotary can’t take that kind of air⁠—she’ll foul herself to a standstill before she cuts a foot. An’ with a burley riggin’ she’s got to make damn near a double cut⁠—seven foot inside figger⁠—so any way you look at it you ain’t goin’ to cut no two foot to the minute.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t check my figures, but you do. So we’ll cut five feet. Saw your timbers accordingly. We’ll hold that burley by hand.”

Wright shook his head dubiously. “We don’t want to die down here any more than you do, boss, so we’ll do our damndest⁠—but how in hell do you figure you can hold her to her work?”

“Rig a yoke. Cut a stretcher up for canvas and padding. It’ll pound, but a man can stand almost anything, in short enough shifts, if he’s got to or die.”

And for a time⁠—two minutes, to be exact, during which the rotary chewed up and spat out a plug of rock over five feet deep⁠—things went very well indeed. Two men, instead of the usual three, could run the rotary; that is, they could tend the complicated pneumatic walking jacks which not only oscillated the cutting demon in a geometrical path, but also rammed it against the face with a steadily held and enormous pressure, even while climbing almost vertically upward under a burden of