As far as his wife was concerned Merle Duggan was gone. Dead and buried. She could get a divorce if she wanted and marry that podgy, pink-skulled boss of hers at the advertising agency....
"Five hundred a month," Duggan told himself. "Two-fifty for the rental, fifty for insurance—maybe fifty or so for spare parts—that leaves about a hundred and fifty for me."
He was starting at the bottom as a rock hog, a mucker, a clean-up man in the newly opened 80th Level. And his wages were the minimum union scale.
He took the lift down to the 79th Level, flashed his new badge at the guards, and took the gritty freight lift to the lowest level of the sprawling metropolis....
"You Gaines Short?" he asked the lanky man bent over the littered desk in the rough plastic bubble that served as an office.
Sharp black eyes studied him—noted the bright new olive badge, and the creased, obviously new, coveralls.
"You're the new rock hog?"
"Yes, sir. Al Duggan."
"Any experience?"
"Montana—mining. Had some engineering. Worked in Ozarka on tunnels."