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