Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
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 Internationa
l 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