Sounds of distress wafted up from still further down in the workings. A metallic crash. Shouts. Bonwitt started down toward the machine shop as Crane hunched once more over his ticker.
A new drill press, not yet bolted down, had toppled and pinned one of the mechanics to the floor. The man was unconscious; his fellow workers were heaving sweatily to free him. Peterson, the new super of the mines, looked on, bellowing, purpled. He leered at Bill Bonwitt.
"What the hell happened?" he demanded. "Where were you?"
Bonwitt flared up; he didn't like Peterson. "I'm off duty," he snapped. "Besides, nothing could be done. All that happened is the moon shifted a little on its axis and came back."
"I'll say it shifted! A mile of Tycho's rim caved in just past our workings. And you in the dome!" A sneer twisted the super's thin lips. He was looking for trouble.
Bonwitt bristled anew but curbed his wrath, shrugging it all off.
"No damage, was there?" he inquired mildly. "No air leaks?" He moved nonchalantly to where they were helping the victim of the accident.
Peterson followed, watching as they pulled the man out and laid him on a bench. Bonwitt examined the injured man swiftly.
"No broken bones," he proclaimed tersely. "Take him to Doc Tonge. He'll fix him up in a jif."
The fellow, tawny of skin, a runt of unguessable age and origin, gasped and opened his eyes. They fixed, glass-hard, on Peterson.