“Boss, what goes on?” he called as he came up. “Damn near shook me out of my seat!”

“I don’t know. You haven’t set any trim charges?”

“Jesus, no, boss. I wouldn’t set no charges without your say-so.”

“Come on.” Reynolds started out across the rubble-littered stretch of barren ground selected by the Authority as the site of the new spaceport. Halfway to the open mouth of the newly blasted pit, the ground under his feet rocked violently enough to make him stumble. A gout of dust rose from the excavation ahead. Loose rock danced on the ground. Beside him the drilling chief grabbed his arm.

“Boss, we better get back!”

Reynolds shook him off, kept going. The drill chief swore and followed. The shaking of the ground went on, a sharp series of thumps interrupting a steady trembling.

“It’s a quake!” Reynolds yelled over the low rumbling sound.

He and the chief were at the rim of the core now.

“It can’t be a quake, boss,” the latter shouted. “Not in these formations!”

“Tell it to the geologists—” The rock slab they were standing on rose a foot, dropped back. Both men fell. The slab bucked like a small boat in choppy water.

“Let’s get out of here!” Reynolds was up and running. Ahead, a fissure opened, gaped a foot wide. He jumped it, caught a glimpse of black depths, a glint of wet clay twenty feet below—

A hoarse scream stopped him in his tracks. He spun, saw the drill chief down, a heavy splinter of rock across his legs. He jumped to him, heaved at the rock. There was blood on the man’s shirt. The chief’s hands beat the dusty rock before him. Then other men were there, grunting, sweaty hands gripping beside Reynolds. The ground rocked. The roar from under the earth had risen to a deep, steady rumble. They lifted the rock aside, picked up the injured man, and stumbled with him to the aid shack.

The mayor was there, white-faced.

“What is it, Reynolds? By God, if you’re responsible—”

“Shut up!” Reynolds brushed him aside, grabbed the phone, punched keys.

“Eaton! What have you got on this temblor?”

“Temblor, hell.” The small face on the four-inch screen looked like a ruffled hen. “What in the name of Order are you doing out there? I’m reading a whole series of displacements originating from that last core of yours! What did you do, leave a pile of trim charges lying around?”

“It’s a quake. Trim charges, hell! This thing’s broken up two hundred yards of surface rock. It seems to be traveling north-northeast—”

“I see that; a traveling earthquake!” Eaton flapped his arms, a tiny and ridiculous figure against a background of wall charts and framed diplomas. “Well—do something, Reynolds! Where’s Mayor Dougherty?”

“Underfoot!” Reynolds snapped, and cut off.