Battery lights were soon reconnected, and everybody knew that they had holed through. There was no more panic. And, even before the shift-boss had recovered full consciousness, he was walking down the drift toward Station Eleven.
There is no need to enlarge upon the rest of that grim and grisly affair. Level after level was activated; and, since working upward in mines is vastly faster than working downward, the two parties met on the Eighth Level. Half of the men who would otherwise have died were saved, and—much more important from the viewpoint of Uranium, Inc.—the deeper and richer half of the biggest and richest uranium mine in existence, instead of being out of production for a year or more, would be back in full operation in a couple of weeks.
And George Washington Jones, still a trifle shaky from his ordeal, was called into the front office. But before he arrived:
“I’m going to make him Assistant Works Manager,” Clancy announced.
“I think not.”
“But listen, Mr. Isaacson—please! How do you expect me to build up a staff if you snatch every good man I find away from me?”
“You didn’t find 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, shut it wordlessly. He knew that department Q was—
Department Q.
XV
Costigan was not surprised to see the man he had known as Birkenfeld in Uranium’s ornate conference room. He had not expected, however, to see Isaacson. He knew, of course, that Spaceways owned Uranium, Inc., and the planet Eridan, lock, stock, and barrel; but it never entered his modest mind that his case would be of sufficient importance to warrant the personal attention of the Big Noise himself. Hence the sight of that suave and unrevealing face gave the putative Jones a more than temporary qualm. Isaacson was top-bracket stuff, ’way out of his class. Virgil Samms ought to be taking this assignment, but since he wasn’t—
But instead of being an inquisition, the meeting was friendly and informal from the start. They complimented him upon the soundness of his judgment and the accuracy of his decisions. They thanked him, both with words and with a considerable sum of expendable credits. They encouraged him to talk about himself, but there was nothing whatever of the star-chamber or of cross-examination. The last question was representative of the whole conference.
“One other thing, Jones, has me slightly baffled,” Isaacson said, with a really winning smile. “Since you do not drink, and since you were not in search of feminine … er … companionship, just why did you go down to Roaring Jack’s dive?”
“Two reasons,” Jones said, with a somewhat shamefaced grin. “The minor one isn’t easy to explain, but … well, I hadn’t been having an exactly easy time of it on Earth … you all know about that, I suppose?”
They knew.
“Well, I was taking a very dim view of things in general, and a good fight would get it out of my system. It always does.”
“I see. And the major reason?”
“I knew, of course, that I was on probation. I would have to get promoted, and fast, or stay sunk forever. To get promoted fast, a man can either be enough of a bootlicker to be pulled up from on high, or he can be shoved up by the men he is working with. The best way to get a crowd of hard-rock men to like you is to lick a few of ’em—off hours, of course, and according to Hoyle—and the more of ’em you can lick at once, the better. I’m pretty good at rough-and-tumble brawling, so I gambled that the cops would step in before I got banged up too much. I won.”
“I see,” Isaacson said again, in an entirely different tone. He did see, now. “The first technique is so universally used that the possibility of the second did not occur to me. Nice work—very nice.” He turned to the other members of the Board. “This, I believe, concludes the business of the meeting?”
For some reason or other Isaacson nodded slightly as he asked the question; and one by one, as though in concurrence, the others nodded in reply. The meeting broke up. Outside the door, however, the magnate did not go about his own business nor send Jones about his. Instead:
“I would like to show you, if I may, the aboveground part of our Works?”
“My time is yours, sir. I am interested.”
It is unnecessary here to go into the details of a Civilization’s greatest uranium operation; the storage bins, the grinders, the Wilfley tables and slime tanks, the flotation sluices, the roasters and reducers, the processes of solution and crystallization and recrystallization, of final oxidation and reduction. Suffice it to say that Isaacson showed Jones the whole immensity of Uranium Works Number One. The trip ended on the top floor of the towering Administration Building, in a heavily-screened room containing a desk, a couple of chairs, and a tremendously massive safe.
“Smoke up.” Isaacson indicated a package of Jones’ favorite brand of cigarettes and lighted a cigar. “You knew that you were under test. I wonder, though, if you knew how much of it was testing?”
“All of it.” Jones grinned. “Except for the big blow, of course.”
“Of course.”
“There were too many possibilities, of too many different kinds, too pat. I might warn you, though—I could have got away clear with that half-million.”
“The possibility existed.” Surprisingly, Isaacson did not tell him that the trap was more subtle than it had appeared to be. “It was, however, worth the risk. Why didn’t you?”
“Because I figure on making more than that, a little later, and I might live longer to spend it.”
“Sound thinking, my boy—really sound. Now—you noticed, of course, the vote at the end of the meeting?”
Jones had noticed it; and, although he did not say so, he had been wondering about it ever
