Dirk saw his fettered companions raise blunt instruments resembling pick-axes over their heads and attack the rocky soil with the sharp, scooplike blade. There were other lines of men working other sections of the rock heap. Like twisted snakes the lines wound about, up and down hillocks, through stunted vegetation.
In his hands Dirk was aware was one of the picks. A black engulfing despair settled over his soul. Then bitterness flooded over him.
"I'll be damned if I'll work" he shouted. With all his strength he flung the pick away from him.
"Take it easy, friend," the man on his right cautioned in an undertone.
"Why should I?" he yelled. "I'm no slave. I'm Dirk Temple. I'll get out of here, I tell you. I'll get—"
"Watch it!" the man on his right hissed.
His warning was too late. Dirk had not seen Buck, the broken-nosed guard coming up behind him. He had not seen the cruel, blunt whip swinging.
All he knew was its sudden vicious bite as it slashed across his back. Again and again it fell wielded with all of Buck's strength and deliberate cruelty.
Dirk pitched to the ground moaning.
The lash contiued to rise and fall, until Dirk's back was criss-crossed with ribbon-like welts. Then it stopped.
"Now." Buck panted, "get to work."
It took Dirk minutes to crawl to his feet. Someone tossed the pick at his feet and he picked it up dully. He swung it once to the ground and almost cried out as his muscles worked under his frayed, stinging skin. But it was better to swing the pick and writhe with every movement than to provoke another assault by refusing.
THE man on his right spoke through set lips.
"It don't do no good to blow up. Keep your mouth shut and you'll live longer."
"Who wants to live?" Dirk almost sobbed.
The man on his right went on working without replying.
The day wore away. There was a brief pause about mid-day but no food was served. When the lines of shackled men were ordered to quit, Dirk's legs were trembling with fatigue. His lacerated back throbbed with excruciating pain. Blood was dripping from his finger tips, welling from his blistered, cut palms.
They filed along until they came to a metal doorway leading to one of the large sheds. Then the line slowed to a jerky crawl.
"Inspection" the man walking beside him grunted.
When Dirk reached the doorway he saw that a half-dozen guards with drawn atomic pistols checked the men in. One of the guards had a sponge-like object in his right hand. As each prisoner passed him he slapped him on the shoulder with object in his hand, and shouted out a number. Dirk was next in line.
"New one," the guard yelled.
Dirk was thinking of something that had eluded him all day. It was the girl. He remembered now his last words for her. "I'll be back for you." That’s what he'd told her. A bitter smile touched his lips.
He stepped ahead, the guard's hand rose and fell. The sponge-like object pounded into his shoulder. A swift tingling raced through his body, as if invisible hot needles were probing his body, for nerve centers. He started to wheel, an angry yell forming on his lips, but he didn't.
He plodded on instead, his jaw slackening, his eyes glazing. He knew noth-
