The moneymen turned him away, laughing, sneering, saying his science was bad; saying he was too far away from oil, calling him a fool, a dupe, a hopeless loser. His peers, smelling the stench of failure, distanced themselves from him. His lenders - the few he had - fidgeted, fearing he was unlucky. His bills and worries mounted. His drilling rig, "Lucky Lucy," true to the antithesis of her name, broke down almost daily. His crew, tired of working for nothing, threatened to walk away.

Crafty, whispering voices, from figures waiting from the shadows, schemed to get at that which he sought, if he were lucky enough to find it. Eager, desperate faces of farmers, merchants, and townspeople stood aside watching, waiting, praying his good luck would be theirs, as well.

Few believed him, and as his bit twisted its way into the Earth's mysterious belly, one who did, a woman he wondered if he could trust, told him what he couldn't seem to fathom - that his real discovery would likely not be at the bottom of his hole.