In the meantime Thomas had let his beard grow, wore an iron helmet if he thought anyone official was around, and put up his prices by twenty pence on the dollar.
The drop hammers thumped, all in a row, powered by the big ox treadmill. There were swords to beat out and panels to be shaped. Sparks erupted.
Stronginthearm took off his helmet (the Committee had been around again) ancl wiped the inside.
'Dibbuk? Where the hell are you?'
A sensation of filled space made him turn. The foundry's golem was standing a few inches behind him, the forge light glowing on his dark red clay. 'I told you not to do that, didn't I?' Stronginthearm shouted above the din.
The golem held up its slate.
YES.
'You've gone and done all your holy day stuff? You were away too long!'
SORROW.
'Well, now you're back with us, go and take over on Number Three hammer and send Mr Vincent up to my office, right?'
YES.
Stronginthearm climbed the stairs to his office. He turned at the top to look back across the red-lit foundry floor. He saw Dibbuk walk over to the hammer and hold up a slate for the foreman. He saw Vincent the foreman walk away. He saw Dibbuk take the sword-blank that was being shaped and hold it in place for a few blows, then hurl it aside.
Stronginthearm hurried back down the steps.
When he was half-way down Dibbuk had laid his head on the anvil.
When Stronginthearm reached the bottom the hammer struck for the first time.
When he was half-way across the ash-crusted floor, other workers scurrying after him, the hammer struck for the second time.
As he reached Dibbuk the hammer struck for the third time.
The glow faded in the golem's eyes. A crack appeared across the impassive face.
The hammer went back up for the fourth time -
'Duck!' screamed Stronginthearm -
- and then there was nothing but pottery.
When the thunder had died away, the foundry master got to his feet and brushed himself off. Dust and wreckage were strewn across the floor. The hammer had jumped its bearings and was lying by the anvil in a heap of golem shards.
Stronginthearm gingerly picked up a piece of a foot, tossed it aside, and then reached down again and pulled a slate out of the wreckage.
He read:
THE OLD MEN HELPED US!
THOU SHALT NOT KILL!
CLAY OF MY CLAY!
SHAME.
SORROW.
His foreman looked over Stronginthearm's shoulder. 'What did it go and do that for?'