50 in 50

Pete turned and pawed through the crushed remains of his walkthrough. Completely useless. They had done a thorough job, and there was nothing else in this globular tomb that could help him out. His sub-rock radio was in his own bubble, — with that he could call the army base and have a patrol here in twenty minutes. But there was a little matter of twenty feet of rock between the radio and himself.

His light swung up and down the wall. That three-foot vein of RbO must be the same one that ran through his own chamber.

He grabbed his belt. The airmaker was still there! He pressed the points to the wall and watched the silver snow spring out. Pieces of rock fell loose as he worked in a circle. If the power pack held out— and if they didn't come back too soon. .

With each flash of the airmaker an inch-thick slab of rock crumbled away. The accumulators took 3.7 seconds to recharge; then the white flash would leap out and blast loose another mass of rubble. He worked furiously with his left hand to clear away the shattered rock.

Blast with the right arm — push with the left — blast and push— blast and push. He laughed and sobbed at the same time, warm tears running down his cheeks. He had forgotten the tremendous amounts of oxygen he was releasing. The walls reeled drunkenly around him.

Stopping just long enough to seal his helmet, Pete turned back to the wall of his makeshift tunnel. He blasted and struggled with the resisting rock, trying to ignore his throbbing head. He lay on his side, pushing the broken stones behind him, packing them solid with his feet.

He had left the large bubble behind and was sealed into his own tiny chamber far under the earth. He could feel the weight of a half-mile of solid rock pushing down on him, crushing the breath from his lungs. If the airmaker died now, he would lie there and rot in this hand-hewn tomb! Pete tried to push the thought from his mind — to concentrate only on blasting his way through the earth.

Time seemed to stand still as he struggled on through an eternity of effort. His arms worked like pistons while his bloody fingers scrabbled at the corroded rock.

He dropped his arms for a few precious moments while his burning lungs pumped air. The weakened rock before him crumbled and blew away with an explosive sound. The air whistled through the ragged opening. The pressure in the two chambers was equalizing — he had holed through!

He was blasting at the edges of the hole with the weakened air-maker when the legs walked up next to him. Algie's face pushed through the low rock ceiling, a ferocious scowl on its features. There was no room to materialize; all the impotent Algie could do was to shake his fist at — and through — Pete's face.

A monstrous crunching came from the loose rubble behind him; the rock fell away and Mo pushed through. Pete couldn't turn to fight, but he landed one shoe on the giant's shapeless nose before monster hands clutched his ankles.

He was dragged through the rocky tube like a child, hauled back to the bigger cavern. When Mo dropped him he just slid to the floor and lay there gasping. He had been so close.

Algie bent over him. "You're too smart, Mac. I'm going to shoot you now, so you don't give me no more trouble."

He pulled Pete's.45 out of his pocket, grabbed it by the slide and charged it. "By the way, we found your strike. It's going to make me richer'n hell. Glad, Mac?"

Algie squeezed the trigger and a hammer-blow struck Pete's thigh. The little man stood over Pete, grinning.

"I'm going to give you all these slugs where they won't kill you— not right away. Ready for the next one, Mac?"

Pete pushed up onto one elbow and pressed his hand against the muzzle of the gun. Algie's grin widened. "Fine, stop the bullet with your hand!"

He squeezed the trigger; the gun clicked sharply. A ludicrous expression of amazement came over his face. Pete rose up and pressed the airmaker against Algie's faceplate. The expression was still there when his head exploded into frosty ribbons.

Pete dived on the gun, charged it out of the half-cocked position and swung around. Algie had been smart, but not smart enough to know that the muzzle of a regulation.45 acts as a safety. When you press against it the barrel is pushed back into half-cock position and can't be fired until the slide is worked to recharge it.

Mo came stumbling across the room, his jaw gaping amazement. Swinging around on his good leg, Pete waved the gun at him. "Hold it right there, Mo. You're going to help me get back to town."

The giant didn't hear him, — there was room in his mind for only one thought.

"You killed Algie — you killed Algie!"

Pete fired half the clip before the big man dropped. He turned from the dying man with a shudder. It had been self-defense, but that thought didn't help the sick feeling in his stomach. He twisted his belt around his leg to stop the blood and applied a sterile bandage from the tractor's first-aid kit.