Jack and Susan in 1933 (34 page)

Some sort of machine, but that was all Jack could tell.

He continued to squeeze forward, like a finger pushing through a curious ring.

That was an unfortunate analogy for Jack to consider. For sometimes, when you did succeed in getting a ring past a troublesome knuckle, you never got it off again.

Jack squeezed through somehow.

When he reached forward with the candle to see what went
click click click
however, the walls were so close and tight that the burning wick brushed against a clod of earth and was extinguished.

Darkness is absolute three-quarters of a mile deep into a mountain.

Jack tried to reach into his pocket for a match, but discovered he couldn't move his other arm. It was wedged tight between his body and the wall.

His other hand held the candle. He tried to lower it to the ground, but he couldn't maneuver in that space and dropped the candle and its holder. They were of no use to him now anyway. They fell against whatever it was that went
click click click
.

He tried to move his right hand into his left-hand pocket. That was impossible, too.

He tried to back up through the narrow opening he had just entered.

This maneuver precipitated a shower of dust and dirt from the ceiling onto his head.

He was growing tired of squatting, so with one energetic move he kicked his legs out from under him, and fell on his bottom. His feet struck the opposite wall jarringly.

He began to understand Susan's dislike of the dark, enclosed spaces in which you might get trapped forever.

His legs were bent at the knees. His left arm was crushed between his body and the wall. His right arm was free, and he flailed it about, but it didn't hit anything but the ceiling and the right-hand wall. His back was blocking all but an inch or so of the hole he'd pushed through, and he had to bend his head forward so that air could get through to him in this tiny space.

In the blackness Scotty and Zelda whimpered again.

Using the opposite wall as a brace, Jack tried to push himself out through the hole by main force.

He succeeded only in pressing two three-inch footprints into the opposite wall.

Between his feet, the
click click click
went on. Regular, and exquisitely annoying.

He'd heard stories, as a boy, of greedy men who'd been trapped in mines by the lure of diamonds or gold or hidden treasure. He'd been trapped by something that went
click, click, click.

Perhaps he could get out sideways.

He tried to turn over, twisting his legs first, throwing his right leg over his left, and attempting to turn the rest of his body after that.

This ill-advised plan dislodged a large portion of the right wall, which collapsed over the thing that went
click click click
as well as Jack's legs, his hips, his right arm, and most of his torso, with the result that all that remained unburied of Jack was his head and the collar of his sweater.

The only piece of good luck he'd had in the past quarter hour was that the dogs had not ventured into this space ahead of him. They remained unburied and quiet behind him.

“Scotty,” he called softly. Softly, not because he thought he might frighten the dogs away otherwise, but because it was not possible to draw more than a few sips of air into his lungs.

“Zelda?”

The dogs came forward.

“I think you'd better go get help,” said Jack.

The dogs scampered away. They might arrive at the ranch in a few hours, and perhaps someone would notice them and maybe mention having seen them to Susan. Then it was possible she would figure out that something was wrong and that he needed help.

Someone might show up in a few days.

If he was very lucky, he'd get a decent burial.

His predicament constituted interment, but in no way a decent burial.

His left arm, caught underneath him, was numb. So were his legs, beneath a weight of loose rock and dirt.

He could no longer hear the machine that went
click, click, click
, for the layer of earth over it. His left foot, however, was pressed against the device, and he could feel each clicking pulse.

He succeeded, with some difficulty, in freeing his right arm. He took a fistful of dirt, and with some greater difficulty, tried to toss it over his shoulder. Perhaps he could dig himself out.

He succeeded only in dropping a fistful of dirt into his face, clogging his nostrils, and stopping the passages of his throat.

He worked for some minutes staving off suffocation, and then decided he should wait for help, and do nothing at all.

The best way to pass the time was to sleep. He'd gotten very little the night before, and it would be fairly welcome at this point. Also, under the circumstances, sleep was the most painless way of passing through hours of discomfort and rather sullen hopes. He'd have to trust his body not to allow himself to be suffocated, and to wake in the event of another small landslide.

He fell asleep instantly.

He did not dream.

Later, he awakened instantly to full consciousness. Not because there had been another landslide. Not because help had arrived. But merely because he'd figured out the nature of the machine that shared his tomb.

It was a Geiger counter.

And that meant that the Dirt Hole Mine was—a uranium mine.

“A
URANIUM MINE!”
Susan exclaimed.

Mr. Ramey nodded. He was short and spare, and wore a dark blue wool suit entirely inappropriate for Nevada.

“I thought there was only dirt in that mine,” said Susan, wondering.

“The uranium is in the dirt,” Mr. Ramey explained, “and it has to be processed for extraction.”

“I see,” said Susan, and didn't particularly see at all. “What is it good for?”

“I'm—I'm not exactly sure of that bit,” said Mr. Ramey evasively. “But I do assure you that the government has every interest in helping you to reestablish operations in the mine.”

Susan blinked. “You actually want to
help
?”

“In any way that I can,” said Mr. Ramey. He added a little self-deprecating cough. “You must understand that already, however, as I have gone to great lengths to find you. After I spoke to Mr. Dodge in New York—”

“Harmon knows about this?”

“Of course,” said Mr. Ramey. “From what I understand, he's been accepting bids from mining companies already established in Nevada. This should prove a great boon to the area, I don't need to tell you.”

“You do need to tell me,” said Susan. “For I know nothing of this, and still don't know what to think of it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Ramey, “I'm sure if you'd just telephone your husband in New York—”

“My husband is here,” said Susan.

“Well then,” said Mr. Ramey, “I'm sure there won't be any difficulties then. We're only interested in having the mining operation set up as quickly as possible so that—”

“I understand, Mr. Ramey. I understand perfectly now,” Susan said, sitting up in bed with a radiant smile. “Now, would you be so kind as to do a favor for a temporary invalid?”

“Of course,” returned Mr. Ramey, confused.

“Go to the window there…”

Mr. Ramey did so.

“Open it as wide as it will go…”

Mr. Ramey complied.

“Now lean out and yell ‘Blossom' as loudly as you can.”

Mr. Ramey stared at Susan for a moment. “‘Blossom'?”

“It's my cousin's name,” said Susan.

Mr. Ramey leaned out the window and yelled, “Blossom!”

Blossom appeared in the doorway. “I was listening outside the door,” she said unapologetically.

“Good,” said Susan. “Now, did Harmon see Mr. Ramey come in?”

Blossom shook her head. “They were in here with you when Mr. Ramey came, and I brought him in the back way—just in case.”

“Good,” said Susan again. “Mr. Ramey, is there anything on your car that says you're from the government?”

“Ah—the plates, I believe.”

“But it's behind the stables,” said Blossom, “and Mr. Dodge and Mrs. Beaumont never go back there.”

“Even better,” said Susan.

“Mrs. Dodge?”

“Yes?”

“Am I to understand that—”

“All you have to understand, Mr. Ramey, is that from now on you must speak to me directly about all this. My husband has no authority in this matter. In fact, in three weeks he and I will be divorced.”

“Mr. Ramey,” Blossom asked, “if Susan didn't know about the uranium in that mine, and
I
didn't know about it, how did the government find out about it?”

Mr. Ramey smiled.

“A college freshman discovered it. A college freshman at Brown University, a boy who's never traveled out of New England in his life. In a course in geology he was given some specimens of earth to analyze—and one of the samples was from the Dirt Hole Mine in Nevada. He discovered that the earth was radioactive, and his professor determined that the soil sample contained a great percentage of uranium—nearly one-tenth of one percent.”

“That seems like a very
little
percentage to me,” said Susan.

“That one-tenth of one percent will make you the richest woman in Nevada within the year,” said Mr. Ramey. “I can almost guarantee you that. If you don't believe me, I will be happy to introduce you to any number of people who'd be willing to take this place off your hands for a few thousand dollars an acre.”

Mr. Ramey laughed, but Susan and Blossom were dumbfounded.

“At any rate,” Mr. Ramey went on, “we very quietly sent someone out here to take samples of the earth from the mine—after all, the earth that had been analyzed at Brown was about thirty years old—and the results this time were even better.”

Blossom took Mr. Ramey back to his automobile. Inside the main house Colleen made certain that Barbara and Harmon were otherwise occupied. The government agent took off for Carson City, but said that he was available at any time if Susan needed him. Susan never even found out what particular agency he worked for, but there were so many new ones already that the name might not mean anything to her anyway.

However, there were many more important things to think about. Susan waited impatiently for Blossom to return. She needed someone to listen to her chain of reasoning and pick out the flaws.

“That man is the reason Harmon wants me to scuttle the divorce,” said Susan.

“Looks that way,” said Blossom, leaning against the window again. “But I thought he was already rich.”

“I thought so, too. At least there was always plenty of money—of course after living the way I'd lived for two years, having five dollars made me feel like Croesus's favorite wife. But I never knew any details of Harmon's finances. Maybe he doesn't have as much as I thought he did.”

“No matter how much he has,” Blossom pointed out, “it's not going to be as much as you're going to make off this place.”

“How much
we're
going to make,” Susan corrected her. Blossom started to protest. Susan waved away her objections. “You offered to take care of me when I didn't have a penny or a prospect of a penny. Now you're going to let me pay you back for that kindness. That's all there is to it. But if you
really
want to help me, you can help me figure out what part Barbara is playing in all this.”

Blossom and Susan considered this question for a moment.

Susan said, “It won't make any difference to her whether I'm rich or not.”