Tumbler

by Brand Gamblin

  “I heard a diamond bit snap under strain! It snapped so hard, the vibrations ran through your suit and into your radio. Do you know what that means, Jimmy? That means you broke a diamond drill so hard I could hear it through space!" The men all seemed to be looking at the drill, or at the hole. Hands on hips, none of them looked up. She tried not to smile at it, "There's no air in space, Jimmy. In space, no one can hear you screw up. I mean, you screwed up so bad, you broke the laws of space!" At this point, she was grinning openly, and a couple of her crew were smiling too, still refusing to look up at her.

  The blond man she had been chewing out turned to face her, trying not to smile. "And all this is by way of you saying 'I told you so?'"

  Libby put one hand to her chest and feigned shock, "Oh, my! That's right! I'd completely forgot. Now that I think of it, it was me who told you, just half an hour ago, to make an exploratory furrow down this section. That's a furrow, you know, like a trench?"

  He nodded and said through a tight smile, "Yes, but we ran into some tough material lower down -"

  "No, see, that's why I said an 'exploratory' furrow. We wanted a shallow furrow we could check, to make sure what was deeper within. Now, instead of an exploratory furrow, we've got a single deep hole and a shattered bit. Now, what lesson can we take from this?"

  Some of the men were openly laughing by now. It was nearly quitting time, and they knew the cost of the bit wasn't really going to matter to this job, given the value of the ore. Jimmy said, "We've learned . . ." He took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips, looking around at the other guys.

  Libby made a pinwheel motion with her hand, "Come on. It's okay, you can say it. They all know it."

  "We've learned never to question Tumbler's instincts."

  "Thank you. And that, children, is the end of the lesson. Go put your toys away, and get out of here." She slapped Jimmy's helmet, pushing him in the direction of the showers, and headed back up the incline to her shack. She bounced into it and shucked off the suit before realizing she wasn't alone. She jumped, then smiled at the old man. "Mister, I'm gonna put a bell around your neck, if you keep sneaking around like that."

  Bronson stood at the window, with his hands clasped behind his back, staring down at the work. "I don't get out here often enough anymore. That's the problem." Libby bounced over to her desk to record the loss of the drill bit for accounting. The old man continued, "If I were here more often, it wouldn't be so surprising. I might be able to handle things like that." One hand waved vaguely at the collection of men, gathering up the drill for repairs.

  Libby made a note, and carefully put the pencil back in it's clasp. "Couldn't be helped. I suggested to them that they try something different, and they had to try to prove me wrong. Boys will be boys."

  He frowned at her, "You don't mind them breaking equipment while trying to discredit you?"

  She smiled, "I don't mind them trying to discredit me when it means they break equipment in the attempt. It proved my point. So they learned the lesson, and they know I'll call them on it when they're wrong. They learn to listen to the voice of experience, and all it cost was a drill bit. Sounds like a deal to me."

  He nodded slowly, and frowned back out at the hole, "What were you trying to do, anyway?"

  "I was making a half-wall partition."

  Bronson's frown deepened, "What does that mean?"

  She shrugged, "Well, we needed an exploratory furrow, so we could get better readings on the lower strata. So, I figured that, as long as we were digging a shallow hole, I could get them to dig an entire furrow only four feet deep. After that, I was going to get them to do the same thing again, about a half-foot away, and parallel to the first one. With that, we could break off the partition, have access to a long four foot deep trench for analysis, and I could create a partition the size of a half wall."

  "What's this half-wall stuff? We throw away the excess rock from any furrows dug."

  She nodded and shrugged at the same time, "Yeah, we do, but it's bad business." Before he could argue, she forged ahead, "Right now, when we dig a series of furrows, we break off the plates in between to make the holes. The plates that are left over are about eight feet by thirty feet, and if they're clean breaks, we can sell them to be used for housing. They make for solid building material because they're mostly airtight, and the weight isn't that bad in deep space."

  He nodded, still frowning, "I don't see what this has to do with -"

  "I'm getting to that. Right now, we make a little money off of selling those 8x30x1 foot plates, but the designers have to get their own cutters to make anything out of them, other than basic load-bearing walls. If they want to make a door, cut it out of the plate. If they want to make a bookshelf, cut it out of the plate."

  He kept nodding, "If they want to build a half-wall -"

  She smiled, "Exactly. They have to do the cutting themselves. A half-wall is a very common way of breaking up a space into individual rooms, while still giving the impression of space. So, what I was thinking was, what if we delivered to the structural designers a host of different pre-cut shapes. Doesn't cost us anything, gives us safer digging opportunities, and we can charge more because we're saving them the work of cutting it again."

  He was still nodding slowly, but also still frowning, "I don't want to get into the furniture business."

  Her grin widened, "You're not. You're just changing what you do with the waste materials from your digging. I've found ways that we can dig only 10% more furrows than before, and still provide doors, columns, and half-walls. It's still just structural."

  He kept nodding, but didn't look away from the dig. "If it doesn't get in the way of digging, I guess I can't complain." He looked over at her with a piercing gaze, "I don't have any problem with your side projects, as long as they don't get in the way of work."

  Libby frowned at that, "Well, better get back to it, then." Libby pulled the pen out and started working on the daily report. She didn't look up at him, and hoped she could ignore him until he got bored and left. It was possible, though not likely, that the old man knew what she was doing after work.

  After a minute of listening to the pencil scratching, Bronson muttered something about checking the site, and left. She watched him bounce down to the hole her crew had dug, and examine it for a bit. Was he talking about her home project? Did he even know about that? And even if he did, would that be reason enough to come down on her about it? Okay, she had spent a couple of hours sleeping under her desk from time to time. And yes, her mind did sometimes wander when -

  Libby shook her head to free that thought process. It didn't matter. Work was work, and her home life was her own affair. It was quitting time anyway, so she finished up the night's paperwork, then suited up and took her runabout back home.

  The new shack was a mansion compared to the old one. It had three rooms, with a main room for cooking and eating, a separate bedroom and an attached bathroom. Once a week, Mike Davis came by with his version of a paper route. He made a business of waste disposal and fresh water supply. And since she had such a massive rock, she finally had gravity enough to handle a regular steam shower.

  Despite that relief, and the joy she took from the showers, she didn't even stop in the shack this time. She tethered her runabout to the shed door, and grabbed the strange tool that leaned against the door. It was shaped like a pick with a broad shovel head. It was suited for low gravity, where a single hard slice could splinter a rock in dozens of directions. With the broad head, every cut was a clean one, with only one direction for the splintered rock to go.

  She bounced down, into the space where she had originally looked for Dora. In there, she had made a few exploratory digs, pulling up silver, iron, and always lots of quartz. She would need to get the machinery in there before she could get large samples of the ore deposits, but with some hard work, she knew she could get at least a medium-sized rock out of there. She needed to carve out a block of around three cubic meters before
she would be able to process it and get a profit from the result.

  So she looked at the section she'd already cut, a long alcove, defining a large block in the center. Once she freed the block, she could get it ready for processing. It had taken her a month to get that first corridor, and while it was slow work, she was making headway. Another month, and she should be able to walk all around that block. After that, she would just need to separate it from the ceiling and floor, then get someone to give her a hand, taking it to the group processing system. After that. . . who knows. She certainly couldn't pay for the processing, even though the ore should get her that cost back. The science guys at the processors don't work on credit, and she didn't have cash for it. But maybe she could find a speculator who would be willing to advance her some cash in exchange for a percentage of the sale cost.

  Libby shook her head and clasped her hands up over her head, stretching out. That was a worry for tomorrow. Today was a day for digging. She switched her radio to the internal music system, and started chopping at the block, swinging to the beat. After a long day of office work, she still had a long night of digging ahead of her.

  Chapter 17

  Some hours later, her arms and back aching from the work, Libby used the flat shovel head to pull all the splintered ore together in a pile she'd left in the tunnel. Someday, when she was done pulling out the main chunk of the ore, she would collect the pile together and melt it down for processing. But that was for later. Right now, it was time to grab a few hours R&R.

  She slowly climbed up out of the crater, feeling every protesting muscle. As she reached the shack, she ditched the shovel-pick at the door. She stood at the door for a moment, thinking that sleep might be the best course. After all, how long had it been since she'd had a full night's sleep?

  Then she got on the runabout and headed back to the Mary. As she flew past the Davis land, she saw Ira and Minerva out digging. Ira was pulling one furrow after another, while his wife gathered the leftover rock and sorted it for color. Libby saw them working every time she passed, and always wondered at how anyone could keep up such work. Even though she felt like she was working two jobs, that family still put her to shame.

  Once she got to Blessed, she tethered the runabout and headed to the Hail Mary. It was quiet in the Mary, as most everyone was finished with work and heading home. Libby headed up to the bar and waved at Miriam. She sat next to Woody, and said, "Ready to lose some popsicle sticks?"

  "So, that's what you've moved up to? Thought we were playin' for toothpicks?"

  "Unless you're man enough to play for cash." She smiled wearily at him.

  His face hardened at that, "Fun is fun, and money is work. You know we don't ever mix em."

  Miriam appeared at her elbow, "Looks like a rough night."

  Libby rolled her eyes in agreement, "I could definitely use a muscle relaxant."

  Miriam nodded and put a small glass of something clear and brown in front of her. Woody dealt out a hand for each of them, and grabbed a shot glass full of toothpicks. Libby yawned and picked up her cards, "Seriously, what's the big deal about playing for five or ten bucks?"

  Woody took a long pull of his drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He didn't pick up the cards, "It's a different kind of money. It ain't real."

  Libby shuffled her hand around, putting a pair together, "What's not real?"

  "When you win money, it ain't real. Money you get from hard work, from skull sweat, that's real. You can store it, and sleep at night. You can spend it, and know what it's worth. But money you win ain't real. You get it from a fluke, from chance."

  She put two toothpicks between them, "So what? It spends the same as other money."

  Without picking up his hand, he tapped it and threw in two toothpicks, "Don't matter. If you get money 'cause of hard work, that's one thing. But if money just floats to you on the winds of change, that same wind can make it blow away. You can put it in the bank, but you can't really trust it. What's more, if you get it out of luck, who's to say lady luck will smile on you next time? You got no floor under you."

  Libby shrugged. She knew better than to get in the way of the old man when he was on a tear. She threw out two cards, though she desperately wanted to throw away the third. She didn't want him to know she didn't have anything better than a pair.

  He finally picked up his cards, not slowing in the least, "Y'know what else; you get money out of luck, how do you know if'n you're short-changed? How do you know if you coulda been more lucky, had you only waited? Luck's like that. All uncertainty."

  He threw out three cards, and after getting the new ones, added five toothpicks. Libby dropped her cards and pushed the toothpicks over to him, "Chill out, old man. It's just five dollars. I never bet more than I can walk away from."

  Woody was in the process of gathering the cards when she said that. It stopped him, one hand still held out with a card in it. A faraway look held his eyes, "Sometimes you do. Sometimes you bet everything, and you don't even know it." His voice dropped to a whisper, and he looked up at her from lowered eyebrows, "You should know that better than anybody, Tumbler."

  That hit a little close to home, so Libby grabbed the drink and anted up a toothpick. They played in silence for a while, and neither of them paid much attention to the cards.

  In the middle of one game, Libby felt a hand on her shoulder. She started at it, then turned to see Bronson standing behind her. He looked past her at Woody, and said, "Mind if I pull Ms. Carter away for a hand or two?"

  Woody looked from one to the other and said, "I think I'll go spend a penny." He headed off toward the bathroom.

  Bronson didn't sit, but he looked at the cards, "I don't watch my people. I mean, I don't check on their lives or anything. I want you to know that."

  Libby shifted uncomfortably, "Well, yes sir. I can appreciate that."

  He looked equally uncomfortable, "Your shift starts in four hours."

  "I was just heading home for a bit of rest."

  He nodded, looking away, "You haven't had any rest so far, tonight. You've been at home, working your claim."

  She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it until she knew the play. Why would he care if she was working her claim? It was hers, after all. She would still show up on time, still do her work.

  He continued, "I know how you feel. You've got a workable rock, so you want to do something with it. The problem is that you're overextending yourself. You don't have any equipment to do serious digging work, so you go home and exhaust yourself every night." He put his hands in his pockets, and frowned at her, "I'm sure you sleep well at night, but it's starting to affect your work, and I can't have that."

  Libby felt the anger rising up in her, "Well, sir. If I'm not valuable to you, why did you make me foreman in the first place?"

  He shook his head, nodding at the same time in a strange bobblehead motion, "No, you're important to us. But I need you to work when you're on-site. I need to know that your focus is on work, and not on your claim." He brought up his shoulders in a slow shrug, "Besides, technically you're a skilled laborer, working for someone else. Company policy doesn't allow our people to work on other claims."

  The anger started to boil over, "Really? Then you can have my resignation right now, if that's how it is. I'll do my best at work, but you do not get to tell me how to spend my spare time. And if you tell me that this it's against company policy to work my own claim, I'm better off on my own. At least then, there wouldn't be any other claims on my work!"

  Bronson put his hands up, trying to calm her, "Look, Tumbler, it's not like that. I don't want to be a jerk about this. I'm just telling you, this is a problem, and if you don't deal with it, I will."

  Libby started to say something, then stopped and put her head to one side, staring at him. After a moment, she nodded, "I won't quit working my claim. I can't do that. But I'll take care of the problem. I'll find a way."

  "Okay, and if there's anything I can do to help, I'll do
it." He nodded once, then headed over to the bar and sat down, looking for all the world like she simply no longer existed.

  When Woody came back, Libby excused herself, "Deal me out. I've got to get some rest before my shift."

  ***

  Work was tense that day, despite the general ease of the duties, and the fact that she was fairly well rested. The lab results had come back with information indicating that they needed to abandon that dig location, and look further inside the canyon. Her people were able to pick up and move the entire site within two hours, which worried Libby a bit. These were all qualified workers, trained in their duties. The whole move should have taken no more than forty-five minutes. But as she watched them, she saw the disinterested way they went about the work. They weren't worried about the time pressures, they tended to take loads in multiple trips, rather than carry a lot. They joked and chatted while they moved easily from one point to another.

  Libby started watching them with a nervous tension, though she didn't want to say anything. Were they really unmotivated because of her? Had this been going on for a long time, and she was just now noticing? Was Bronson right?

  She acted like she hadn't noticed anything, but started giving more instructions faster. She had them set up the stakes and had them do the thumper tests within five minutes of getting to the new site. She pushed just a little bit on the time to see if they were just responding to her. The men complied, keeping up with the pace she set, and she noticed that they weren't grumbling or muttering about the pace. It was like they didn't notice the difference, between working fast and working slow. As far as they were concerned, it was just work as usual.