The canvas cradle swung through the thirty-foot gap of the central hoist chimney pipe like a heavy-duty swinging weight carving through sulfur smoke.
Inside the sagging flax belly of the sling, Len Vey lay curled upon his left flank. His forehead was pressed against the coarse weave of the floor, his teeth clamped so hard into his lip that the taste of warm salt filled his mouth. Every inch of movement sent blinding needles of pain streaming through his right ribs. The ash spreader bar had struck him. Then, two of his floating ribs had fractured along their joint padding seams, shifting inward against his lung lining with every shallow breath he drew.
He didn’t dare inhale deeply. He had seen quarry workers crushed by falling timbers spit bright pink froth before they died. He knew that if the sharp ends of the fractured ribs punctured his lung, his chest would fill with fluid before Geth Marr could haul him onto the timber landing. He controlled his chest muscle with the rhythmic breathing of a mountain courier carrying forty pounds uphill. Short, three-second pulls through the nostrils. It held the ribs rigid with conscious muscular contraction. It exhaled through pursed lips to keep the intra-chest pressure stable.
