Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _The Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction Stories by Alan E. Nourse_ published in 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. Meeting of the Board It was going to be a bad day. As he pushed his way nervously through thecrowds toward the Exit Strip, Walter Towne turned the dismal prospectover and over in his mind. The potential gloominess of this particularday had descended upon him the instant the morning buzzer had gone off, making it even more tempting than usual just to roll over and forgetabout it all. Twenty minutes later, the water-douse came to drag him, drenched and gurgling, back to the cruel cold world. He had wolfed downhis morning Koffee-Kup with one eye on the clock and one eye on hisgrowing sense of impending crisis. And now, to make things just a trifleworse, he was going to be late again. He struggled doggedly across the rumbling Exit strip toward the plantentrance. After all, he told himself, why should he be so upset? He_was_ Vice President-in-Charge-of-Production of the Robling TitaniumCorporation. What could they do to him, really? He had rehearsed _his_part many times, squaring his thin shoulders, looking the union bossstraight in the eye and saying, "Now, see here, Torkleson--" But heknew, when the showdown came, that he wouldn't say any such thing. Andthis was the morning that the showdown would come. Oh, not because of the _lateness_. Of course Bailey, the shop steward, would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But this seemed hardlyworthy of concern this morning. The reports waiting on his desk werewhat worried him. The sales reports. The promotion-draw reports. Theroyalty reports. The anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his headwearily. The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps eveninfuriating, but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter. He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves, and triedvainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept scooting his tie upunder his ear. Once off the moving strip, he started up the Roblingcorridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps he would be fortunate. Maybe thereports would be late. Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail tosynapse this morning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as hewas dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way to work. Hewalked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancing in at the groups ofmen, arguing politics and checking the stock market reports before theychanged from their neat gray business suits to their welding dungarees. Running up the stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside thedoor to punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could be sick-- Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming withfrantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows of cubbyholes. In themiddle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellow checkeredtattersall, smoking a large cigar. His feet were planted on his desktop, but he hadn't started on his morning Western yet. He was busyglaring, first at the clock, then at Walter. "Late again, I see, " the shop steward growled. Walter gulped. "Yes, sir. Just four minutes, this time, sir. You knowthose crowded strips--" "So it's _just_ four minutes now, eh?" Bailey's feet came down with acrash. "After last month's fine production record, you think fourminutes doesn't matter, eh? Think just because you're a vice presidentit's all right to mosey in here whenever you feel like it. " He glowered. "Well, this is three times this month you've been late, Towne. That's ademerit for each time, and you know what that means. " "You wouldn't count four minutes as a whole demerit!" Bailey grinned. "Wouldn't I, now! You just add up your pay envelope onFriday. Ten cents an hour off for each demerit. " Walter sighed and shuffled back to his desk. Oh, well. It could havebeen worse. They might have fired him like poor Cartwright last month. He'd just _have_ to listen to that morning buzzer. The reports were on his desk. He picked them up warily. Maybe theywouldn't be so bad. He'd had more freedom this last month than before, maybe there'd been a policy change. Maybe Torkleson was gainingconfidence in him. Maybe-- The reports were worse than he had ever dreamed. "_Towne!_" Walter jumped a foot. Bailey was putting down the visiphone receiver. His grin spread unpleasantly from ear to ear. "What have you been doinglately? Sabotaging the production line?" "What's the trouble now?" Bailey jerked a thumb significantly at the ceiling. "The boss wants tosee you. And you'd better have the right answers, too. The boss seems tohave a lot of questions. " Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson hadalready seen the reports. He started for the door, his knees shaking. It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably. Time was whenthings had been very different. It had _meant_ something to be vicepresident of a huge industrial firm like Robling Titanium. A man couldhave had a fine house of his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to theCountry Club; maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere. Walter could almost remember those days with Robling, before theswitchover, before that black day when the exchange of ten little sharesof stock had thrown the Robling Titanium Corporation into the hands ofstrange and unnatural owners. * * * * * The door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged in gold: TITANIUM WORKERS OF AMERICA Amalgamated Locals Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter with pity. "Mr. Torkleson will see you. " Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome office. For aninstant he felt a pang of nostalgia--the floor-to-ceiling windowslooking out across the long buildings of the Robling plant, the pinepaneling, the broad expanse of desk-- "Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over here. " Theman behind the desk hoisted his three hundred well-dressed pounds andglared at Walter from under flagrant eyebrows. Torkleson's whole bodyquivered as he slammed a sheaf of papers down on the desk. "Just what doyou think you're doing with this company, Towne?" Walter swallowed. "I'm production manager of the corporation. " "And just what does the production manager _do_ all day?" Walter reddened. "He organizes the work of the plant, establishesproduction lines, works with Promotion and Sales, integrates Researchand Development, operates the planning machines. " "And you think you do a pretty good job of it, eh? Even asked for araise last year!" Torkleson's voice was dangerous. Walter spread his hands. "I do my best. I've been doing it for thirtyyears. I should know what I'm doing. " "_Then how do you explain these reports?_" Torkleson threw the heap ofpapers into Walter's arms, and paced up and down behind the desk. "_Look_ at them! Sales at rock bottom. Receipts impossible. Big orderscanceled. The worst reports in seven years, and you say you know yourjob!" "I've been doing everything I could, " Walter snapped. "Of course thereports are bad, they couldn't help but be. We haven't met a productionschedule in over two years. No plant can keep up production the way themen are working. " Torkleson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. "So it's the _men_now, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with the men. " "Nothing's wrong with the men--if they'd only work. But they come inwhen they please, and leave when they please, and spend half their timechanging and the other half on Koffee-Kup. No company could survivethis. But that's only half of it--" Walter searched through the reportsfrantically. "This International Jet Transport account--they dropped usbecause we haven't had a new engine in six years. Why? Because Researchand Development hasn't had any money for six years. What can two starvedengineers and a second rate chemist drag out of an attic laboratory forcompetition in the titanium market?" Walter took a deep breath. "I'vewarned you time and again. Robling had built up accounts over the yearswith fine products and new models. But since the switchover seven yearsago, you and your board have forced me to play the cheap products forthe quick profit in order to give your men their dividends. Now thebottom's dropped out. We couldn't turn a quick profit on the big, important accounts, so we had to cancel them. If you had let me managethe company the way it should have been run--" Torkleson had been slowly turning purple. Now he slammed his fist downon the desk. "We should just turn the company back to Management again, eh? Just let you have a free hand to rob us blind again. Well, it won'twork, Towne. Not while I'm secretary of this union. We fought long andhard for control of this corporation, just the way all the other unionsdid. I know. I was through it all. " He sat back smugly, his cheeksquivering with emotion. "You might say that I was a national leader inthe movement. But I did it only for the men. The men want theirdividends. They own the stock, stock is supposed to pay dividends. " "But they're cutting their own throats, " Walter wailed. "You can't builda company and make it grow the way I've been forced to run it. " "Details!" Torkleson snorted. "I don't care _how_ the dividends come in. That's your job. My job is to report a dividend every six months to themen who own the stock, the men working on the production lines. " Walter nodded bitterly. "And every year the dividend has to be higherthan the last, or you and your fat friends are likely to be thrown outof your jobs--right? No more steaks every night. No more privategold-plated Buicks for you boys. No more twenty-room mansions inWestchester. No more big game hunting in the Rockies. No, you don't haveto know anything but how to whip a board meeting into a frenzy sothey'll vote you into office again each year. " Torkleson's eyes glittered. His voice was very soft. "I've always likedyou, Walter. So I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you. " He paused, thencontinued. "But here on my desk is a small bit of white paper. Unlessyou have my signature on that paper on the first of next month, you areout of a job, on grounds of incompetence. And I will personally see thatyou go on every White list in the country. " Walter felt the fight go out of him like a dying wind. He knew what theWhite list meant. No job, anywhere, ever, in management. No chance, ever, to join a union. No more house, no more weekly pay envelope. Hespread his hands weakly. "What do you want?" he asked. "I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four hours. A planthat will guarantee me a five per cent increase in dividends in the nextsix months. And you'd better move fast, because I'm not fooling. " * * * * * Back in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly at thereports. He had known it would come to this sooner or later. They allknew it--Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton of Sales, the wholemanagerial staff. It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had fought it tooth andnail since the day Torkleson had installed the moose heads in Walter'sold office, and moved him down to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchfuleye. He had argued, and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watchedthe company deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and threatenedhis job, and he was helpless to do anything about it. He stared at the machines, clicking busily against the wall. An ideabegan to form in his head. Helpless? Not quite. Not if the others could see it, go along with it. It was arepugnant idea. But there was one thing they could do that evenTorkleson and his fat-jowled crew would understand. They could go on strike. * * * * * "It's ridiculous, " the lawyer spluttered, staring at the circle of menin the room. "How can I give you an opinion on the legality of thething? There isn't any legal precedent that I know of. " He mopped hisbald head with a large white handkerchief. "There just hasn't _been_ acase of a company's management striking against its own labor. It--itisn't done. Oh, there have been lockouts, but this isn't the same thingat all. " Walter nodded. "Well, we couldn't very well lock the men out, they ownthe plant. We were thinking more of a lock-_in_ sort of thing. " Heturned to Paul Hendricks and the others. "We know how the machinesoperate. They don't. We also know that the data we keep in the machinesis essential to running the business; the machines figure productionquotas, organize blueprints, prepare distribution lists, test promotionschemes. It would take an office full of managerial experts to handleeven a single phase of the work without the machines. " The man at the window hissed, and Pendleton quickly snapped out thelights. They sat in darkness, hardly daring to breathe. Then: "Okay. Just the man next door coming home. " Pendleton sighed. "You're sure you didn't let them suspect anything, Walter? They wouldn't be watching the house?" "I don't think so. And you all came alone, at different times. " Henodded to the window guard, and turned back to the lawyer. "So we can'tbe sure of the legal end. You'd have to be on your toes. " "I still don't see how we could work it, " Hendricks objected. His heavyface was wrinkled with worry. "Torkleson is no fool, and he has a lot ofpower in the National Association of Union Stockholders. All he'd needto do is ask for managers, and a dozen companies would throw them to himon loan. They'd be able to figure out the machine system and take overwithout losing a day. " "Not quite. " Walter was grinning. "That's why I spoke of a lock-in. Before we leave, we throw the machines into feedback, every one of them. Lock them into reverberating circuits with a code sequence key. Then allthey'll do is buzz and sputter until the feedback is broken with thekey. And the key is our secret. It'll tie the Robling office into grannyknots, and scabs won't be able to get any more data out of the machinesthan Torkleson could. With a lawyer to handle injunctions, we've gotthem strapped. " "For what?" asked the lawyer. Walter turned on him sharply. "For new contracts. Contracts to let usmanage the company the way it should be managed. If they won't do it, they won't get another Titanium product off their production lines forthe rest of the year, and their dividends will _really_ take anosedive. " "That means you'll have to beat Torkleson, " said Bates. "He'll never goalong. " "Then he'll be left behind. " Hendricks stood up, brushing off his dungarees. "I'm with you, Walter. I've taken all of Torkleson that I want to. And I'm sick of the junkwe've been trying to sell people. " The others nodded. Walter rubbed his hands together. "All right. Tomorrow we work as usual, until the noon whistle. When we go off forlunch, we throw the machines into lock-step. Then we just don't comeback. But the big thing is to keep it quiet until the noon whistle. " Heturned to the lawyer. "Are you with us, Jeff?" Jeff Bates shook his head sadly. "I'm with you. I don't know why, youhaven't got a leg to stand on. But if you want to commit suicide, that'sall right with me. " He picked up his briefcase, and started for thedoor. "I'll have your contract demands by tomorrow, " he grinned. "Seeyou at the lynching. " They got down to the details of planning. * * * * * The news hit the afternoon telecasts the following day. Headlinesscreamed: MANAGEMENT SABOTAGES ROBLING MACHINES OFFICE STRIKERS THREATEN LABOR ECONOMY ROBLING LOCK-IN CREATES PANDEMONIUM There was a long, indignant statement from Daniel P. Torkleson, condemning Towne and his followers for "flagrant violation of managementcontracts and illegal fouling of managerial processes. " Ben Starkey, President of the Board of American Steel, expressed "shock and regret";the Amalgamated Buttonhole Makers held a mass meeting in protest, demanding that "the instigators of this unprecedented crime bepermanently barred from positions in American Industry. " In Washington, the nation's economists were more cautious in theirviews. Yes, it _was_ an unprecedented action. Yes, there wouldundoubtedly be repercussions--many industries were having managerialtroubles; but as for long term effects, it was difficult to say just atpresent. On the Robling production lines the workmen blinked at each other, andat their machines, and wondered vaguely what it was all about. Yet in all the upheaval, there was very little expression of surprise. Step by step, through the years, economists had been watching with waryeyes the growing movement toward union, control of industry. Even as farback as the '40's and '50's unions, finding themselves oppressed withthe administration of growing sums of money--pension funds, welfarefunds, medical insurance funds, accruing union dues--had begun investingin corporate stock. It was no news to them that money could make money. And what stock more logical to buy than stock in their own companies? At first it had been a quiet movement. One by one the smaller firms hadtottered, bled drier and drier by increasing production costs, increasing labor demands, and an ever-dwindling margin of profit. One byone they had seen their stocks tottering as they faced bankruptcy, onlyto be gobbled up by the one ready buyer with plenty of funds to buywith. At first, changes had been small and insignificant: boards ofdirectors shifted; the men were paid higher wages and worked shorterhours; there were tighter management policies; and a little less moneywas spent on extras like Research and Development. At first--until that fateful night when Daniel P. Torkleson of TWA andJake Squill of Amalgamated Buttonhole Makers spent a long evening withbeer and cigars in a hotel room, and floated the loan that threw steelto the unions. Oil had followed with hardly a fight, and as the unionsbegan to feel their oats, the changes grew more radical. Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The gradual undercuttingof the managerial salaries, the tightening up of inter-union collusionto establish the infamous White list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shiftfrom hourly wage to annual salary for the factory workers, and thechange to the other pole for the managerial staff. And then, withcreeping malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more andhigher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward the inevitablecrisis. Until Shop Steward Bailey suddenly found himself in charge of a dozensputtering machines and an empty office. * * * * * Torkleson was waiting to see the shop steward when he came in nextmorning. The union boss's office was crowded with TV cameras, newsmen, and puzzled workmen. The floor was littered with piles ofominous-looking paper. Torkleson was shouting into a telephone, andthree lawyers were shouting into Torkleson's ear. He spotted Bailey andwaved him through the crowd into an inner office room. "Well? Did theyget them fixed?" Bailey spread his hands nervously. "The electronics boys have been at itsince yesterday afternoon. Practically had the machines apart on thefloor. " "I know that, stupid, " Torkleson roared. "I ordered them there. Did theyget the machines _fixed_?" "Uh--well, no, as a matter of fact--" "Well, _what's holding them up_?" Bailey's face was a study in misery. "The machines just go in circles. The circuits are locked. They just reverberate. " "Then call American Electronics. Have them send down an expert crew. " Bailey shook his head. "They won't come. " "They _what_?" "They said thanks, but no thanks. They don't want their fingers in thispie at all. " "Wait until I get O'Gilvy on the phone. " "It won't do any good, sir. They've got their own management troubles. They're scared silly of a sympathy strike. " The door burst open, and a lawyer stuck his head in. "What about thoseinjunctions, Dan?" "Get them moving, " Torkleson howled. "They'll start those machinesagain, or I'll have them in jail so fast--" He turned back to Bailey. "What about the production lines?" The shop steward's face lighted. "They slipped up, there. There was oneprogram that hadn't been coded into the machines yet. Just a minor item, but it's a starter. We found it in Towne's desk, blueprints all ready, promotion all planned. " "Good, good, " Torkleson breathed. "I have a directors' meeting rightnow, have to get the workers quieted down a bit. You put the programthrough, and give those electronics men three more hours to unsnarl thisknot, or we throw them out of the union. " He started for the door. "Whatwere the blueprints for?" "Trash cans, " said Bailey. "Pure titanium-steel trash cans. " It took Robling Titanium approximately two days to convert its entireproduction line to titanium-steel trash cans. With the total resourcesof the giant plant behind the effort, production was phenomenal. In twomore days the available markets were glutted. Within two weeks, at aconservative estimate, there would be a titanium-steel trash can forevery man, woman, child, and hound dog on the North American continent. The jet engines, structural steels, tubing, and other pre-strikeproducts piled up in the freight yards, their routing slips and orderrequisitions tied up in the reverberating machines. But the machines continued to buzz and sputter. The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and Hendricks andall the others had been picketing the plant, until angry crowds ofworkers had driven them off with shotguns. Then they came back in anold, weatherbeaten 'copter which hovered over the plant entrancecarrying a banner with a plaintive message: ROBLING TITANIUM UNFAIR TOMANAGEMENT. Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copterremained. The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering Towneto return to work. It was duly appealed, legal machinery began tyingitself in knots, and the strikers still struck. By the fifth day therewas a more serious note. "You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge this one. " "When?" "Tomorrow morning. And before a labor-rigged judge, too. " The littlelawyer paced his office nervously. "I don't like it. Torkleson's gettingdesperate. The workers are putting pressure on him. " Walter grinned. "Then Pendleton is doing a good job of selling. " "But you haven't got _time_, " the lawyer wailed. "They'll have you injail if you don't start the machines again. They may have you in jail ifyou _do_ start them, too, but that's another bridge. Right now they wantthose machines going again. " "We'll see, " said Walter. "What time tomorrow?" "Ten o'clock. " Bates looked up. "And don't try to skip. You be there, because _I_ don't know what to tell them. " Walter was there a half hour early. Torkleson's legal staff gloweredfrom across the room. The judge glowered from the bench. Walter closedhis eyes with a little smile as the charges were read: "--breach ofcontract, malicious mischief, sabotage of the company's machines, conspiring to destroy the livelihood of ten thousand workers. YourHonor, we are preparing briefs to prove further that these men haveformed a conspiracy to undermine the economy of the entire nation. Weappeal to the spirit of orderly justice--" Walter yawned as the words went on. "Of course, if the defendant will waive his appeals against the previousinjunctions, and will release the machines that were sabotaged, we willbe happy to formally withdraw these charges. " There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His Honor turned toJeff Bates. "Are you counsel for the defendant?" "Yes, sir. " Bates mopped his bald scalp. "The defendant pleads guilty toall counts. " The union lawyer dropped his glasses on the table with a crash. Thejudge stared. "Mr. Bates, if you plead guilty, you leave me noalternative--" "--but to send me to jail, " said Walter Towne. "Go ahead. Send me tojail. In fact, I _insist_ upon going to jail. " The union lawyer's jaw sagged. There was a hurried conference. A recesswas pleaded. Telephones buzzed. Then: "Your Honor, the plaintiff desiresto withdraw all charges at this time. " "Objection, " Bates exclaimed. "We've already pleaded. " "--feel sure that a settlement can be effected out of court--" The case was thrown out on its ear. And still the machines sputtered. * * * * * Back at the plant rumor had it that the machines were permanentlygutted, and that the plant could never go back into production. Conflicting scuttlebutt suggested that persons high in uniondom hadperpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying Management into the strikefor the sole purpose of cutting current dividends and selling stock tothemselves cheaply. The rumors grew easier and easier to believe. Theworkers came to the plants in business suits, it was true, and loungedin the finest of lounges, and read the _Wall Street Journal_, and feltlike stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not thehighest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance fees, andsundry other little items which had formerly been paid by well-to-domanagements, and very little was left but the semi-annual dividendchecks. And now the dividends were tottering. Production lines slowed. There were daily brawls on the plant floor, inthe lounge and locker rooms. Workers began joking about the trash cans;then the humor grew more and more remote. Finally, late in the afternoonof the eighth day, Bailey was once again in Torkleson's office. "Well? Speak up! What's the beef this time?" "Sir--the men--I mean, there's been some nasty talk. They're tired ofmaking trash cans. No challenge in it. Anyway, the stock room is full, and the freight yard is full, and the last run of orders we sent outcame back because nobody wants any more trash cans. " Bailey shook hishead. "The men won't swallow it any more. There's--well, there's beentalk about having a board meeting. " Torkleson's ruddy cheeks paled. "Board meeting, huh?" He licked hisheavy lips. "Now look, Bailey, we've always worked well together. Iconsider you a good friend of mine. You've got to get things undercontrol. Tell the men we're making progress. Tell them Management isbeginning to weaken from its original stand. Tell them we expect to havethe strike broken in another few hours. Tell them anything. " He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling hand he liftedthe visiphone receiver. "Get me Walter Towne, " he said. * * * * * "I'm not an unreasonable man, " Torkleson was saying miserably, wavinghis fat paws in the air as he paced back and forth in front of thespokesmen for the striking managers. "Perhaps we were a littledemanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic with our ownership, and allthat. But I'm sure we can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scaleis certainly within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for bettercompany houses. " Walter Towne stifled a yawn. "Perhaps you didn't understand us. The menare agitating for a meeting of the board of directors. We want to be atthat meeting. That's the only thing we're interested in right now. " "But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the contract yourlawyer presented. " "I know, but you rejected that contract. So we tore it up. Anyway, we'vechanged our minds. " Torkleson sat down, his heavy cheeks quivering. "Gentlemen, bereasonable! I can guarantee you your jobs, even give you a free handwith the management. So the dividends won't be so large--the men willhave to get used to that. That's it, we'll put it through at the nextexecutive conference, give you--" "The board meeting, " Walter said gently. "That'll be enough for us. " The union boss swore and slammed his fist on the desk. "Walk out infront of those men after what you've done? You're fools! Well, I'vegiven you your chance. You'll get your board meeting. But you'd bettercome armed. Because I know how to handle this kind of board meeting, andif I have anything to say about it, this one will end with a massacre. " * * * * * The meeting was held in a huge auditorium in the Robling administrationbuilding. Since every member of the union owned stock in the company, every member had the right to vote for members of the board ofdirectors. But in the early days of the switchover, the idea of a boardof directors smacked too strongly of the old system of corporateorganization to suit the men. The solution had been simple, if a trifleungainly. Everyone who owned stock in Robling Titanium was automaticallya member of the board of directors, with Torkleson as chairman of theboard. The stockholders numbered over ten thousand. They were all present. They were packed in from the wall to the stage, and hanging from the rafters. They overflowed into the corridors. Theyjammed the lobby. Ten thousand men rose with a howl of anger when WalterTowne walked out on the stage. But they quieted down again as DanTorkleson started to speak. It was a masterful display of rabble-rousing. Torkleson paced the stage, his fat body shaking with agitation, pointing a chubby finger again andagain at Walter Towne. He pranced and he ranted. He paused at just theright times for thunderous peals of applause. "This morning in my office we offered to compromise with these jackals, "he cried, "and they rejected compromise. Even at the cost of loweringdividends, of taking food from the mouths of your wives and children, wemade our generous offers. They were rejected with scorn. These thieveshave one desire in mind, my friends, to starve you all, and to destroyyour company and your jobs. To every appeal they heartlessly refused todivulge the key to the lock-in. And now this man--the ringleader whokeeps the key word buried in secrecy--has the temerity to ask anaudience with you. You're angry men; you want to know the man to blamefor our hardship. " He pointed to Towne with a flourish. "I give you your man. Do what youwant with him. " The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men rushed ontothe stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed past his ear andsplattered against the wall. More men clambered up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists. Then somebody appeared with a rope. Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly the roar ofthe men was drowned in another sound--a soul-rending, teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze, jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardlybelieving their ears. In the instant of silence as the factory whistledied away, Walter grabbed the microphone. "You want the code word tostart the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!" The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson burst tohis feet. "It's a trick!" he howled. "Wait 'til you hear their price. " "We have no price, and no demands, " said Walter Towne. "We will _give_you the code word, and we ask nothing in return but that you listen forsixty seconds. " He glanced back at Torkleson, and then out to the crowd. "You men here are an electing body--right? You own this great plant andcompany, top to bottom--right? _You should all be rich_, because Roblingcould make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich. Only the fatones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how _you_ can be rich. " They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly, WalterTowne was talking their language. "You think that since you own the company, times have changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you were? Of course not. Becauseyou haven't learned yet that oppression by either side leads to miseryfor both. You haven't learned moderation. And you never will, until youthrow out the ones who have fought moderation right down to the lastditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer and richersince the switchover. Throw him out, and you too can be rich. " He pausedfor a deep breath. "You want the code word to unlock the machines? Allright, I'll give it to you. " He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man sitting there. "The code word is TORKLESON!" * * * * * Much later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies off the wallof the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly. "Pity about DanTorkleson. Gruesome affair. " Walter nodded as he struggled down with a moose head. "Yes, a pity, butyou know the boys when they get upset. " "I suppose so. " The lawyer stopped to rest, panting. "Anyway, with thenewly elected board of directors, things will be different foreverybody. You took a long gamble. " "Not so long. Not when you knew what they wanted to hear. It just took alittle timing. " "Still, I didn't think they'd elect you secretary of the union. It justdoesn't figure. " Walter Towne chuckled. "Doesn't it? I don't know. Everything's been alittle screwy since the switchover. And in a screwy world like this--"He shrugged, and tossed down the moose head. "_Anything_ figures. "