Reject

CHAPTER 2

  He rescued the 'P & R Weekly' from Grey's wastepaper basket, smoothed it out and retreated to the sample stores to lock himself away from it all, sitting down on an empty shelf beneath the one grimy window so that a shaft of dusty sunlight illuminated the pages. It took only a minute or so to scan the 'Sits. Vac.' columns. He had expected nothing and there was nothing. It had been the same for months.

  "I'm just too specialised" he reflected dismally. "Trapped, driven down a blind alley by my own accumulating knowledge. 33 and already too late to change direction. With the exception of my own tiny specialism, I would have to compete with new graduates at half the salary and twice the adaptability. It isn't on! What the Hell am I going to do?"

  For a long time he sat without thinking about anything at all. On the opposite shelf, samples from each of the Plant experimental runs had been neatly laid out. Nine rows of twenty, plus five in the tenth, 165 yellowing squares of plastic foam including Saturday's which Little Mike had, with characteristic efficiency already labelled up and put into place. He picked one up, blew away the dust and scrutinised it carefully. It was six inches square and one inch thick with the legend

  Run No E1

  inked on it, together with the date, almost three years ago to the day. How different it had all seemed then! He compared it with No.165, balancing one in each hand. They looked alike and he knew that the test results would show that there was very little difference between them. Not much to show for all that time, effort and money!

  He blew thoughtfully through the samples, gauging their porosity in a mannerism which had become a characteristic of the foam technologist. The Industry had been devoting a substantial amount of effort to the problem of inflammability in polyether foams, spurred on by a growing pressure from fire brigades who had to deal with the aftermath of the incendiary nature of their products and Ron Brown M.P. who was turning the issue into somewhat of a crusade. Questions were in danger of being asked in the House. More or less since the time of its invention, it was known that you could put chemical flame retardents into the compound and impart fire resistance to the foam, but these agents pushed up the price and knocked down the quality so that the furniture manufacturers wouldn't buy it because you don't sell settees on the basis of their behaviour in fire and the public didn't want to pay the extra price, so there the matter seemed to be deadlocked, firemen continued to choke in the fumes, the odd baby continued to suffocate in its cot and the Industry continued with its research. Perhaps this state of affairs might have continued indefinitely had it not been for Grey's fertile mind.

  It is said that Archimedes discovered his Principle in the bath, but Grey's 'AHA moment' came when he was in a particularly difficult bunker at the 9th, when he was already four strokes behind 'That Bastard Burton From Sales' and he was so inspired that he went on to win, finishing with a very convincing 30 foot putt. The following day he and Dave tried it out in the lab and it worked. A real breakthrough, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to do something great! The days and weeks which followed came and went in a frenzied blur of activity, the whole department often worked late into the evening making, testing, trying, altering conditions, altering mixes and then retesting, re-altering and trying again until they had got it as good as it could be. It passed every test put before it except one. The new foam's Achilles Heel turned out to be its tear strength - it was brittle, weaker than that which it was designed to replace. Not too brittle to be any good, but enough to put restrictions on its use and thus limit some of the more exotic applications to which polyether foams were applied. The departmental effort began to focus itself with increasing intensity towards the problem, but Grey and Dave had their suspicions even before the first Plant trial that there was a common reason for the superb flame retardence and the structural weakness of the new foam so that you couldn't have one without the other. He flexed the square of plastic in his hands and remembered that first trial.

  The whole staff had been there, including Millar, very early on a bright sunny Saturday morning to find that the maintenance fitters were already swarming all over the Plant, tearing at its vitals with the inevitable Stillsons, peeling little shiny brass flakes from the pipe fittings as they disconnected and rejoined the numerous rubber hoses. When the Plant had been commissioned, its makers had supplied an impressive kit of spanners which now occupied a glass case above the foreman's desk, still in their virginal film of protective grease in marked contrast to the much thumbed 'Big is Beautiful' engineer's calendar casually tacked to the woodwork alongside it. All the nuts and bolts were now modified to the same convenient shape so that any fitter could be sent to any job with a comprehensive yet simple toolkit:

  1 off Pair of Pliers (for very small nuts)

  1 off Pair Stillsons - Small (for small nuts)

  1 off Pair Stillsons – Medium (for medium sized nuts)

  1 off Pair Stillsons – Large (as a substitute for a hammer and also for large nuts)

  1 off Screwdriver (for prising off nuts in awkward corners)

  1 off Hammer (if all else fails!)

  As Dave climbed the slippery metal stairway, taking care not to touch the handrails which already bore the imprint of Dan's gloves, the foreman fitter was straddled above the control platform with one booted foot wedged in each rail so that he would have to pass beneath the inverted 'V' of the man's legs. He was shouting unintelligable instructions to an anonymous individual in a grimy khaki boiler suit who was performing some magic high up in a jungle of pipework just beneath the roof. Where the pipes had been undone, open ends dangled over the conveyor belts dribbling chemicals all over the place, making a sticky mess of anything or anybody luckless enough to get in the way. His eye set upon the crisp figure of Peddle who did much to dispel the prevailing aura of anarchy. Always a snappy dresser, he outdid George for the knife-edged creases in his boiler suit. His brown, stylised Totectors shone and his respirator contrived to remain at attention midway between the first and second buttons on his chest. He was at the control console, setting the resin output.

  "Morning. You're in early!"

  "Special day, isn't it. How's it going?"

  "That's what I came to find out!" Pike had made an uncharacteristically quiet entrance from around the rear gangway.

  "Oh. hello! Well..." he consulted the master clock on the console "we've more or less set up the polyol, there's the TDI to do plus the Dog and Bucket - say half past ten if we don't hit any snags."

  "Oh, well, OK then. Take your time."

  "Did I hear you correctly?"

  "You did, my boy. Don't forget who's paying!"

  "Oh, I see!"

  "I only allow my ulcer to bother me when it's on Works time. I've some paperwork to attend to - give me a ring when you're ready for the 'off', will you" Pike excused himself and, seeing the looming bulk of Folklore on the main stairs, disappeared smartly back the way he had come.

  "What's the Dog and Bucket?"

  "I'll show you when you've got rid of Folklore."

  "Where?"

  "On the stairs. He's your boss, you get rid of him."

  "It's your Plant!"

  "Yes, but be fair - I've got George to put up with!"

  "Morning, Mr Folklore."

  "Morning, Peddle, Dave. How soon will you be ready?"

  "About ten-thirty if all goes well."

  "Why should it take so long?"

  "Lots of adjustments and calibrations to do. It'll take much longer if I have to show you in detail." Dave was pushing his luck.

  "Perhaps you could give me a brief resume." Folklore settled back on his heels and adopted a listening expression.

  Peddle shrugged his shoulders and exchanged a meaningful glance with the foreman fitter who was still straddled above them, a yard behind Folklore. He grinned and exchanged a few brief tic-tac signals to the fitter high above and seconds later a Stillson clanged loudly on to the metal staging between them. "Sorry!" the fitter yel
led down cheerfully but Folklore was already halfway down the stairs, his hands gliding slickly over the contaminated handrails, sweeping Dan and his assistant before him.

  "I've never seen him move so fast in my life!"

  "You should've seen him the day when Mrs F's foot slipped off the brake..."

  "I think I can picture the scene!"

  "...outside the department when she called to take him home one evening. Knocked down all those nice Tea roses the gardener had just finished planting."

  "So that's why he always waits in the entrance hall!"

  "Did you think it was just so that he could bid you goodnight?"

  "One has one's little illusions!"

  "He used to sit in his office until she was safely parked, poor old sod, but she must have taken it as a personal insult because she used to just lean on the horn until he came out."

  "Like he does to his secretary with that horrible buzzer?"

  "Precisely! - too embarrasing for a man in his position, you see - so he gets the gateman to call him when she comes in so that he's nicely placed to hear her pull up on the extra braking system."

  "What extra braking system?"

  "Tyre against the kerb!"

  A black hand appeared on the handrail.

  "Oh, there you are Dan. Be ready for the Bath in about five minutes." Dan nodded and offered the black glove to Dave in ritual handshake. He shuddered and hastily put his right hand behind him.

  "The Dog and Bucket?"

  "Oh, yes - come downstairs. Excuse us Dan.

  Underneath the stairway an old galvanised bucket had been fitted directly on top of a rotary pump and it was Dan's job to keep it topped up during a run from his own buckets. Four of these already filled with chemicals waited in a neat row beside it.

  "And the Dog?"

  In the corner a corrugated iron drum provided a reservoir for another rotary pump set which stood on the floor. The entire apparatus, including its festoon of pipes and wires was covered in a disgusting film of dirty green grease which dripped incessantly on to the concrete underfoot, spreading a slippery, irridescent green stain where it mingled with the normal resinous accumulation from elsewhere. "It takes its name" explained Peddle "from the days when we used it to pump green pigment before the new dye line was installed. D.O.G. - Dirty Old Green! Indispensible to experimentals as long as you want green. You did want green, didn't you?"

  "Ah, well, it's time for the Ceremony of the Bath - I like to get this bit over with before there are too many people about."

  "Oh, yes - what's so special about it?"

  "We use the Bath to calibrate the TDI into. If you must witness it, you'd better borrow George's respirator."

  Intrigued, Dave followed him back upstairs to find Dan and his oppo. manoevering a galvanised iron bath into place under the dispensing head. The fitters had evidently withdrawn to the canteen.

  "All set?" There was a general adjusting of respirators, rubber gloves and goggles. Peddle switched on the circulating pump, sighed and then jabbed another button. Dave had never actually been on the plant at the switching on of the Fans and was thus unprepared. A gut-rending roar erupted through the building, ascending rapidly in pitch to a sonorous bellow in which communication was only possible by sign language. As the stupefying din descended like a black shroud over his brain he saw Peddle press another button, a noise as of somebody clearing his nose was faintly audible and a douche of watery liquid cascaded into the bath. Thirty seconds later he re-pressed the button, the nose clearing was repeated and the flood stopped. The bath was full almost to the brim with liquid venom, its surface rippling gently from the dripping nozzle above it.

  The catalyst men moved in and took the handles with gloved hands. Peddle moved aside to give them room as Dan backed down the oily stairs holding his handle high above him while his oppo. followed down, bent double and doing his best to prevent TDI from sloshing over the sides. The dreadful tableau inched its way down and thankfully out of sight. Peddle lifted the respirator from his mouth and screamed into Dave's ear "I think we should go over to the lab for a cuppa while the fumes clear."

  "What do they do with it?" he asked when they were far enough away from the Fans.

  "Weigh it and pour it off into a scrap drum."

  "Why don't you have a service lift?"

  "Ask Pike. He's got fed up with campaigning for one - he's waiting for someone to get maimed so that he can have the pleasure of telling the Works Manager that he told him so."

  As they entered the lab through the back door they met Grey, mincing delicately across the black, resinous filth which covered the pilot plant floor (Bobski had won the last 14 consecutive games, Ernie becoming so infuriated that he refused to sweep up, maintaining that Bobski made most of the mess anyway).

  "How's progress?"

  "Didn't Folklore tell you?"

  "No."

  "He omitted to remind you to wear a hard hat."

  "Eh?"

  "Selfish old devil, you know!"

  "And after such a lucky escape!"

  "Send in poor old Grey - after all, he doesn't matter very much."

  "What in Hell are you two drivelling about?"

  Peddle supplied an expurgated account of the incident which nonetheless caused Grey's lips to twitch in amusement. "I should keep out of the offices, though. There are more people here this morning than there are for most of the rest of the week. Just let me know when you're ready and in the meantime I'll keep them off your backs, if I can."

  "I do believe that you're on our side! Be about 10.30 - I'll phone you. Come on Dave - canteen!"

  After tea the various chemical streams had to be calibrated. The process was very simple in principle - each pump was switched on in turn and one minute's output collected from the dispensing head for weighing. In practice, it was a work study man's nightmare.

  Dan started with the flame retardent (in the Dog). His weighing machine was one of the old fashioned shop type with two pans and a big glass-fronted dial in between. On the left hand pan he put an empty 7lb jam tin (from the canteen) and tared it by putting on and off the right hand one an assortment of odd nuts and bolts which lived in a plastic cup underneath the bench until it balanced, and all the while wearing his rubber gloves. He then toiled up the stairs to the dispensing head, positioned a bucket underneath it and Peddle signalled to Dan's oppo. down below to switch the pump on (the Dog and Bucket being designated 'experimental' had never been wired into the console and were destined to remain jury rigged forever). Once the chemical was flowing smoothly into the bucket, on a nod from Peddle, Dan caught the stream in his jam tin and held it there until the second nod one minute later and it was downstairs to reweigh while Peddle signalled the 'off' to his oppo.

  It always took a long time to work out the weight. The brass counterweights were so encrusted with filth that he had to wipe each one on his boiler suit in order to see what it was and then had to squint through the grime on the glass to read the pointer, rubbing it with a black finger more from habit than any real hope of improving the visibility. Next he had to 'figger it', usually by finger count but occasionally resorting to a scrap of paper and what may once have been a pencil. Eventually he would toil back upstairs again to give the result to Peddle (with the Fans running it was impossible to shout from below). If the setting was wrong the jam tin would have to be emptied and the whole process gone through again, sometimes three or four times. When he had finished with the Dog they watched him carry the brimming bucket downstairs, the handrail bending alarmingly as he held on to it, staggering down behind the enormous weight. It needed two of them to hoist it up high enough to tip back into the corrugated tank.

  That morning there were four streams to do.

  The final bucket had been removed, the dispensing nozzle fitted, sidewalls set, starting block put into place and the mixer run up. Peddle took a look round, it was 10.45.

  "All set?" Dave had suddenly bec
ome very dry in the mouth.

  Peddle nodded "I'll summon the executive." The telephone was parked on top of the console so that he had to reach up on tiptoe, yank it forward by its cable and catch it as it fell. There were several calls to make and he was still on the line as Millar, Folklore and Grey, followed by a retinue of lab assistants flooded up the stairway. George and Pete appeared from round the back, accompanied by a salesman who had got wind that something was on.

  "How can I run the Plant with all this lot blocking the place up? Morning Mr Millar!"

  "Everything's perfectly ready, Dave?"

  "More or less, Mr Folklore."

  "Good man!"

  "If you would position yourselves in rank order down there opposite Mohammed the Miserable..."

  "Who?"

  "The big black man over the other side of the conveyor."

  "Come on, give me some room. I finish at 12 oclock whatever happens."

  "Enjoys an audience, does George!"

  "He's right, though" interjected Peddle "everyone off the platform please. Plenty of room down the sides."

  "Good man, good man!"

  "Is Dan on station?"

  Peddle nodded. George glanced round the control area, brushed a lab assistant out of the way and switched on the Fans before clamping a respirator over his face, setting a pair of tinted spectacles precariously over the rubber nosepiece and fitting a futuristic looking set of headphone type earmuffs over the rest of it. Thus garbed, he was like the three wise monkeys all rolled into one, able to communicate only by touch and sight if you were priveliged to enter his narrow vision tunnel. Following his example, there was a flurry of movement along the sides of the conveyor as the throng assembled their various facepieces. Folklore had even acquired a set of earmuffs and resembled a 'Cyberman'. Millar, of course, wore no protection of any kind.

  George ran the mixer up to a shrill scream, turned and raised one finger to Peddle who was at the top of the stairs. Peddle raised his finger and Dan, down below, switched on the Dog. A few seconds later a thin trickle of frothy green liquid began to emerge from the nozzle. George raised two fingers to Peddle who, with equal gusto raised two fingers to Dan and the Bucket jerked on its pump, slopping the top inch of chemical out over the floor, the emergent stream changed colour and became noticeably thicker. George's hands blurred over the knobs on the console. He snatched the cushion from Pete's waiting hand and plumped on to the metal seat. The nozzle spouted goo, the conveyor jolted forward and a sheet of pale green foam began to grow on the belt, rising like a wave against the starter block.

  He was aware of Pete in the background making settling down adjustments and a rhythmic squeak, audible above the general bedlam. Peddle was beckoning urgently from the top of the stairs, Dave's horrified gaze followed his finger to the Bucket who's pump was in the throes of some dreadful internal stricture, causing it to jerk convulsively to and fro, sloshing its contents over Dan who was bravely trying to keep it topped up. He pulled back his respirator. "What's up?"

  "Not sure" screeched Peddle. "That muck you've got in it doesn't lubricate the bearings. I expect it'll seize up solid and stall the motor."

  "Oh, please" he prayed to the suffering Bucket "please keep going a little bit longer" but it only squealed the louder in its death agonies except that with each passing second more beautiful foam was being laid down on the belt and borne away by the conveyor, looking better and better all the time until 3 minutes and 27 seconds into the run the Bucket died abruptly and with no further warning. Peddle made the umpire's 'wide' sign for emergency stop, Pete tapped George on the shoulder and between them they knocked everything off in a flurry of precisely timed movement leaving only the Fans to drone on until with one more flamboyant flick of George's wrist, they too fell silent.

  Pandemonium broke loose. Dave found himself at the centre of an enthusiastic, back-slapping crowd. Folklore was pumping his hand up and down. "Good man, oh, good man. Well done!"

  "It worked! It actually worked!" Grey was practically beside himself.

  Slightly bemused, hardly able to believe it himself, he was nonetheless aware of a sneaking sympathy for Dik, who had been working on the same problem but from a different approach (based on a so-called high resilience formulation). He must have been very put out when the merger landed a complete development team on his doorstep and then promptly eclipsed him with its activities, but he was there that morning with a faint, philosophical grin. "Saved me a bit of bother, at least!"

  The party wound its way back to the lab, bearing samples and giving every appearance of just having found the Holy Grail. There was a great deal of passing around of samples and impromptu rough and ready testing and much chewing over of each result as someone measured it and then off upstairs for an unprecedented scotch with Millar and a more leisurely spell of self-congratulation before drifting off home for Saturday lunch.

  Dave had gone back round to the now silent Plant building for a final look at the stuff on the belt. He could see Dan plodding about clearing up, clearly untouched by the whole affair. The fitters were putting the pipework back to normal and he was conscious that a great moment had passed.

  He brushed a fragment of dust from the sample and slipped it into his pocket. "Oh, what the Hell...." he said aloud to himself "....might as well go and get a cup of tea.

  It is an ancient Plant worker,

  And he sidles up to me,

  By thy long black beard and glittering eye,

  What's with this Packet of Three?"

  After Coleridge