He took that step. The stocky man’s face abruptly froze in horror. The lanky man stiffened convulsively. He couldn’t stop. He knew it. He’d go back and on over the rounded edge, and fall. He might touch the scaffolding. It would not stop him. It would merely set his body spinning crazily as it dropped and crashed again and again before it landed two hundred feet below.
It was horror in slow motion, watching the lean man stagger backward to his death.
Then Joe leaped.
4
For an instant, in mid-air, Joe was incongruously aware of all the noises in the Shed. The murky, girdered ceiling still three hundred feet above him. The swelling, curving, glittering surface of steel underneath. Then he struck. He landed beside the lean man, with his left arm outstretched to share his impetus with him. Alone, he would have had momentum enough to carry himself up the slope down which the man had begun to descend. But now he shared it. The two of them toppled forward together. Their arms were upon the flat surface, while their bodies dangled. The feel of gravity pulling them slantwise and downward was purest nightmare.
But then, as Joe’s innards crawled, the same stocky man who had knocked the lean man back was dragging frantically at both of them to pull them to safety.
Then there were two men pulling. The stocky man’s face was gray. His horror was proof that he hadn’t intended murder. The man who’d put down his welding torch pulled. The man who’d been climbing the ladder put his weight to the task of getting them back to usable footing. They reached safety. Joe scrambled to his feet, but he felt sick at the pit of his stomach. The stocky man began to shake horribly. The lanky one advanced furiously upon him.
“I didn’ mean to keel you, Haney!” the dark one panted.