The Mammoth Book of Golden Age SF

by Martin Greenberg

  “Now,” he gritted through a red wall of pain, “You’re gonna git operated.” And he kicked out the master clutch.

  The motor wailed, with the load taken off so suddenly. Tom grasped the throttle, his thumb down on the ratchet release, and he shoved the lever forward to shut off the fuel.

  It wouldn’t shut off; it went down to a slow idle, but it wouldn’t shut off.

  “There’s one thing you can’t do without,” he muttered, “compression.”

  He stood up and leaned around the dash, reaching for the compression-release lever. As he came up out of the seat, the engine revved up again. He turned to the throttle, which had snapped back into the “open” position. As his hand touched it the master clutch lever snapped in and the howling machine lurched forward with a jerk that snapped his head on his shoulders and threw him heavily back into the seat. He snatched at the hydraulic blade control and threw it to “float” position; and then as the falling mouldboard touched the ground, into “power down.” The cutting edge bit into the ground and the engine began to labour. Holding the blade control, he pushed the throttle forward with his other hand. One of the steering clutch levers whipped back and struck him agonisingly on the kneecap. He involuntarily let go of the blade control and the mouldboard began to rise. The engine began to turn faster and he realized that it was not responding to the throttle. Cursing, he leaped to his feet; the suddenly flailing steering clutch levers struck him three times in the groin before he could get between them.

  Blind with pain, Tom clung gasping to the dash. The oil-pressure gauge fell off the dash to his right, with a tinkling of broken glass, and from its broken quarter-inch line scalding oil drenched him. The shock of it snapped back his wavering consciousness. Ignoring the blows of the left steering clutch and the master clutch which had started the same mad punching, he bent over the left end of the dash and grasped the compression lever. The tractor rushed forward and spun sickeningly, and Tom knew he was thrown. But as he felt himself leave the decking his hand punched the compression lever down. The great valves at the cylinder heads opened and locked open; atomized fuel and superheated air chattered out, and as Tom’s head and shoulders struck the ground the great wild machine rolled to a stop, stood silently except for the grumble of water boiling in the cooling system.

  Minutes later Tom raised his head and groaned. He rolled over and sat up, his chin on his knees, washed by wave after wave of pain. As they gradually subsided, he crawled to the machine and pulled himself to his feet, hand over hand on the track. And groggily he began to cripple the tractor, at least for the night.

  He opened the cock under the fuel tank, left the warm yellow fluid gushing out on the ground. He opened the drain on the reservoir by the injection pump. He found a piece of wire in the crank box and with it tied down the compression release lever. He crawled up on the machine, wrenched the hood and ball jar off the air intake precleaner, pulled off his shirt and stuffed it down the pipe. He pushed the throttle all the way forward and locked it with the locking pin. And he shut off the fuel on the main line from the tank to the pump.

  Then he climbed heavily to the ground and slogged back to the edge of the plateau where he had left Rivera.

  They didn’t know Tom was hurt until an hour and a half later – there had been too much to do – rigging a stretcher for the Puerto Rican, building him a shelter, an engine crate with an Army pup tent for a roof. They brought out the first-aid kit and the medical books and did what they could – tied and splinted and dosed with an opiate. Tom was a mass of bruises, and his right arm, where it had hooked the exhaust stack, was a flayed mass. They fixed him up then, old Peebles handling the sulfa powder and bandages like a trained nurse. And only then was there talk.

  “I’ve seen a man thrown off a pan,” said Dennis, as they sat around the coffee urn munching C rations. “Sittin’ up on the arm rest on a cat, looking backwards. Cat hit a rock and bucked. Threw him off on the track. Stretched him out ten feet long.” He in-whistled some coffee to dilute the mouthful of food he had been talking around, and masticated noisily. “Man’s a fool to set up there on one side of his butt even on a pan. Can’t see why th’ goony was doin’ it on a dozer.”

  “He wasn’t,” said Tom.

  Kelly rubbed his pointed jaw. “He set flat on th’ seat an’ was th’owed?”

  “That’s right.”

  After an unbelieving silence Dennis said, “What was he doin’ – drivin’ over sixty?”

  Tom looked around the circle of faces lit up by the over-artificial brilliance of a pressure lantern, and wondered what the reaction would be if he told it all just as it was. He had to say something, and it didn’t look as if it could be the truth.

  “He was workin’,” he said finally. “Bucking stone out of the wall of an old building up on the mesa there. One turned loose an’ as it did the governor must’ve gone haywire. She buckled like a loco hoss and run off.”

  “Run off?”

  Tom opened his mouth and closed it again, and just nodded.

  Dennis said, “Well, reckon that’s what happens when you put a mechanic to operatin’.”

  “That had nothin’ to do with it,” Tom snapped.

  Peebles spoke up quickly. “Tom – what about the Seven? Broke up any?”

  “Some,” said Tom. “Better look at the steering clutches. An’ she was hot.”

  “Head’s cracked,” said Harris, a burly young man with shoulders like a buffalo and a famous thirst.

  “How do you know?”

  “Saw it when Al and me went up with the stretcher to get the kid while you all were building the shelter. Hot water runnin’ down the side of the block.”

  “You mean you walked all the way out to the mound to look at that tractor while the kid was lyin’ there? I told you where he was!”

  “Out to the mound!” Al Knowles’ pop eyes teetered out of their sockets. “We found that cat stalled twenty feet away from where the kid was!”

  “What!”

  “That’s right, Tom,” said Harris. “What’s eatin’ you? Where’d you leave it?”

  “I told you . . . by the mound . . . the ol’ building we cut into.”

  “Leave the startin’ motor runnin’?”

  “Starting motor?” Tom’s mind caught the picture of the small, two-cylinder gasoline engine bolted to the side of the big Diesel’s crankcase, coupled through a Bendix gear and clutch to the flywheel of the Diesel to crank it. He remembered his last glance at the still machine, silent but for the sound of water boiling. “Hell, no!”

  Al and Harris exchanged a glance. “I guess you were sort of slap-happy at the time, Tom,” Harris said, not unkindly. “When we were halfway up the hill we heard it, and you know you can’t mistake that racket. Sounded like it was under a load.”

  Tom beat softly at his temples with his clenched fists. “I left that machine dead,” he said quietly. “I got compression off her and tied down the lever. I even stuffed my shirt in the intake. I drained the tank. But – I didn’t touch the starting motor.”

  Peebles wanted to know why he had gone to all that trouble. Tom just looked vaguely at him and shook his head. “I shoulda pulled the wires. I never thought about the starting motor,” he whispered. Then, “Harris – you say you found the starting motor running when you got to the top?”

  “No – she was stalled. And hot – awmighty hot. I’d say the startin’ motor was seized up tight. That must be it, Tom. You left the startin’ motor runnin’ and somehow engaged the clutch an’ Bendix.” His voice lost conviction as he said it – it takes seventeen separate motions to start a tractor of this type. “Anyhow, she was in gear an’ crawled along on the little motor.”

  “I done that once,” said Chub. “Broke a con rod on an Eight, on a highway job. Walked her about three-quarters of a mile on the startin’ motor that way. Only I had to stop every hundred yards and let her cool down some.”

  Not without sarcasm, Dennis said, “Seems to me like the Seve
n was out to get th’ goony. Made one pass at him and then went back to finish the job.”

  Al Knowles haw-hawed extravagantly.

  Tom stood up, shaking his head, and went off among the crates to the hospital they had jury-rigged for the kid.

  A dim light was burning inside, and Rivera lay very still, with his eyes closed. Tom leaned in the doorway – the open end of the engine crate – and watched him for a moment. Behind him he could hear the murmur of the crew’s voices; the night was otherwise windless and still. Rivera’s face was the peculiar color that olive skin takes when drained of blood. Tom looked at his chest and for a panicky moment thought he could discern no movement there. He entered and put a hand over the boy’s heart. Rivera shivered, his eyes flew open, and he drew a sudden breath which caught raggedly at the back of his throat. “Tom. . . Tom!” he cried weakly.

  “O.K., Goony . . . que pasa?”

  “She comeen back . . . Tom!”

  “Who?”

  “El de siete.”

  Daisy Etta – “She ain’t comin’ back, kiddo, You’re off the mesa now. Keep your chin up, fella.”

  Rivera’s dark, doped eyes stared up at him without expression. Tom moved back and the eyes continued to stare. They weren’t seeing anything. “Go to sleep,” he whispered. The eyes closed instantly.

  Kelly was saying that nobody ever got hurt on a construction job unless somebody was dumb. “An’ most times you don’t realize how dumb what you’re doin’ is until somebody does get hurt.”

  “The dumb part was gettin’ a kid, an’ not even an operator at that, up on a machine,” said Dennis in his smuggest voice.

  “I heard you try to sing that song before,” said old Peebles quietly. “I hate to have to point out anything like this to a man because it don’t do any good to make comparisons. But I’ve worked with that fella Rivera for a long time now, an’ I’ve seen ’em as good but doggone few better. As far as you’re concerned, you’re O.K. on a pan, but the kid could give you cards and spades and still make you look like a cost accountant on a dozer.”

  Dennis half rose and mouthed something filthy. He looked at Al Knowles for backing and got it. He looked around the circle and got none. Peebles lounged back, sucking on his pipe, watching from under those bristling brows. Dennis subsided, running now on another tack.

  “So what does that prove? The better you say he is, the less reason he had to fall off a cat and get himself hurt.”

  “I haven’t got the thing straight yet,” said Chub, in a voice whose tone indicated “I hate to admit it, but—”

  About this time Tom returned, like a sleepwalker, standing with the brilliant pressure lantern between him and Dennis. Dennis rambled right on, not knowing he was anywhere near: “That’s something you never will find out. That Puerto Rican is a pretty husky kid. Could be Tom said somethin’ he didn’t like an’ he tried to put a knife in Tom’s back. They all do, y’know. Tom didn’t get all that bashin’ around just stoppin’ a machine. They must of went round an’ round for a while an’ the goony wound up with a busted back. Tom sets the dozer to walk him down while he lies there and comes on down here and tries to tell us—” His voice fluttered to a stop as Tom loomed over him.

  Tom grabbed the pan operator up by the slack of his shirt front with his uninjured arm and shook him like an empty burlap bag.

  “Skunk,” he growled. “I oughta lower th’ boom on you.” He set Dennis on his feet and backhanded his face with the edge of his forearm. Dennis went down – cowered down, rather than fell.

  “Aw, Tom, I was just talkin’. Just a joke, Tom, I was just—”

  “Yellow, too,” snarled Tom, stepping forward, raising a solid Texan boot.

  Peebles barked “Tom!” and the foot came back to the ground.

  “Out o’ my sight,” rumbled the foreman. “Git!”

  Dennis got. Al Knowles said vaguely, “Naow, Tom, y’all cain’t—”

  “You, y’wall-eyed string-bean!” Tom raved, his voice harsh and strained. “Go ’long with yer Siamese twin!”

  “O.K., O.K.,” said Al, white-faced, and disappeared into the dark after Dennis.

  “Nuts to this,” said Chub. “I’m turnin’ in.” He went to a crate and hauled out a mosquito-hooded sleeping bag and went off without another word. Harris and Kelly, who were both on their feet, sat down again. Old Peebles hadn’t moved.

  Tom stood staring out into the dark, his arms straight at his sides, his fists knotted.

  “Sit down,” said Peebles gently. Tom turned and stared at him.

  “Sit down. I can’t change that dressing ’less you do.” He pointed at the bandage around Tom’s elbow. It was red, a widening stain, the tattered tissues having parted as the big Georgian bunched his infuriated muscles. He sat down.

  “Talkin’ about dumbness,” said Harris calmly, as Peebles went to work, “I was about to say that I got the record. I done the dumbest thing anybody ever did on a machine. You can’t top it.”

  “I could,” said Kelly. “Runnin’ a crane dragline once. Put her in boom gear and started to boom her up. Had an eighty-five-foot stick on her. Machine was standing on wooden mats in th’ middle of a swamp. Heard the motor miss and got out of the saddle to look at the filter-glass. Messed around back there longer than I figured, and the boom went straight up in the air and fell backwards over the cab. Th’ jolt tilted my mats an’ she slid backwards slow and stately as you please, butt-first into the mud. Buried up to the eyeballs, she was.” He laughed quietly. “Looked like a ditching machine!”

  “I still say I done the dumbest thing ever, bar none,” said Harris. “It was on a river job, widening a channel. I come back to work from a three-day binge, still rum-dumb. Got up on a dozer an’ was workin’ around on the edge of a twenty-foot cliff. Down at the foot of the cliff was a big hickory tree, an’ growin’ right along the edge was a great big limb. I got the dopey idea I should break it off. I put one track on the limb and the other on the cliff edge and run out away from the trunk. I was about halfway out, an’ the branch saggin’ some, before I thought what would happen if it broke. Just about then it did break. You know hickory – if it breaks at all it breaks altogether. So down we go into thirty feet of water – me an’ the cat. I got out from under somehow. When all them bubbles stopped comin’ up I swum around lookin’ down at it. I was still paddlin’ around when the superintendent came rushin’ up. He wants to know what’s up. I yell at him, ‘Look down there, the way that water is movin’ an’ shiftin’, looks like the cat is workin’ down there.’ He pursed his lips and tsk tsked. My, that man said some nasty things to me.”

  “Where’d you get your next job?” Kelly exploded.

  “Oh, he didn’t fire me,” said Harris, soberly. “Said he couldn’t afford to fire a man as dumb as that. Said he wanted me around to look at whenever he felt bad.”

  Tom said, “Thanks, you guys. That’s as good a way as any of sayin’ that everybody makes mistakes.” He stood up, examining the new dressing, turning his arm in front of the lantern. “You all can think what you please, but I don’t recollect there was any dumbness went on that mesa this evenin’. That’s finished with, anyway. Do I have to say that Dennis’ idea about it is all wet?”

  Harris said one foul word that completely disposed of Dennis and anything he might say.

  Peebles said, “It’ll be all right. Dennis an’ his popeyed friend’ll hang together, but they don’t amount to anything. Chub’ll do whatever he’s argued into.”

  “So you got ’em all lined up, hey?” Tom shrugged. “In the meantime, are we going to get an airfield built?”

  “We’ll get it built,” Peebles said. “Only – Tom, I got no right to give you any advice, but go easy on the rough stuff after this. It does a lot of harm.”

  “I will if I can,” said Tom gruffly. They broke up and turned in.

  Peebles was right. It did no harm. It made Dennis use the word ‘murder’ when they found, in the morning, that Rivera had died duri
ng the night.

  The work progressed in spite of everything that had happened. With equipment like that, it’s hard to slow things down. Kelly bit two cubic yards out of the bluff with every swing of the big shovel, and Dumptors are the fastest short-haul earth movers yet devised. Dennis kept the service road clean for them with his pan, and Tom and Chub spelled each other on the bulldozer they had detached from its pan to make up for the lack of the Seven, spending their alternate periods with transit and stakes. Peebles was rod-man for the surveys, and in between times worked on setting up his field shop, keeping the water cooler and battery chargers running, and lining up his forge and welding tables. The operators fuelled and serviced their own equipment, and there was little delay. Rocks and marl came out of the growing cavity in the side of the central mesa – a whole third of it had to come out – were spun down to the edge of the swamp, which lay across the lower end of the projected runway, in the hornet-howling dump-tractors, their big driving wheels churning up vast clouds of dust, and were dumped and spread and walked in by the whining two-cycle dozer. When muck began to pile up in front of the fill, it was blasted out of the way with carefully placed charges of sixty percent dynamite and the craters filled with rocks and stone from the ruins, and surfaced with easily compacting marl, run out of a clean deposit by the pan.

  And when he had his shop set up, Peebles went up the hill to get the Seven. When he got to it he just stood there for a moment scratching his head, and then, shaking his head, he ambled back down the hill and went for Tom.

  “Been looking at the Seven,” he said, when he had flagged the moaning two-cycle and Tom had climbed off.

  “What’d you find?”