He listened to the water rise like terror, coming up until it reached the level of tubes on which he lay. It soaked his work shirt and he waited to see if it would creep above the level of the drain holes he had cut. A bubbling noise reverberated in the shell, the water stopped rising, and Paul allowed himself a little smile. He had outsmarted the bastard, whoever he was. Paul skidded back to the manhole and started to pound on the bolt. After twenty minutes, his blows had grown too weak, and sweat beaded off him like drops of mercury. He lay back and shined the light toward the drain holes he’d cut, which gasped and rattled, barely keeping up with the water. The boiler shell arched above him like a coffin lid, a rash of white-and-red scale blistering its surface.

With idleness came fear. He shook himself and tried to realize that he was almost through the bolt head. He thought of what the old people said about God never sending more than you can bear, and this made him feel, for a moment, safe.

He was resting, but he continued to sweat. Then he sensed the pipes slowly heat up on his back like electrodes, and with a pang he knew that someone had lit the fuel-oil atomizers. He began for a minute to cry great, slow machinist’s tears, becoming angry because he was betrayed by one of his machines. He sat up and found the safety-valve hole, his anger building a shout through the opening. Shucking his coveralls, he crawled to the rear of the boiler, stuffed them over the drain holes and waited for the water to rise over his shoe tops. He took out his short chisel and hammer and waded to the front tube sheet, where he would be closest to the fire, and he began cutting tubes open furiously, water pouring out of them and into the firebox, cooling the flame. Steaming water rose from each hammer blow until he cut open ten flue pipes. A hot spot raised a blister on one knee, and he started a dance motion to keep from getting burned. He reached the point at which the same amount of water was pouring out onto the fire as was being pumped in. He went back to the manhole bolt and worked as hard as he was able. After ten minutes of banging, he was nearly through, but he became completely winded, his arms falling to his sides like limp plants. The flashlight floated away, and all he could do was to lie back in the rusty water and look after it. He took what he thought would be his last rest, one way or the other.