Reject

by ToClark

CHAPTER 15

  Grey poked his head round the chemists' door.

  "Folklore's demanding another run." He grinned ghoulishly at Dave, Pat and Mike who were abruptly arrested in the task of trying to catch a matchbox in a teacup. Pat, who had been taking aim at Mike's cup, paused with the box gripped carefully between thumb and forefinger.

  "I thought that Pike said we couldn't have any Plant time because we are too busy."

  "Folklore's gone to the Works Manager about it."

  "Fat lot of good that'll do him. He'll only refer him back to Pike."

  "Not this time, he won't! The mood Sir's in, he'll go right to the Top if necessary."

  "What's biting him, then?" enquired Dave.

  "Salesmen" explained Grey "keep on at him about the strength problem. They can all see lots of lovely commission in it if it ever gets going."

  "I've no sympathy, as you well know" returned Dave unhelpfully. "If the silly old goat hadn't made all sorts of promises that we can't fulfil, we would have been in production for two years as a special product and making a fortune by now."

  Grey looked a little sad. They all knew the oft repeated truth of this, but it still hurt when voiced aloud. "He had his reasons" he defended lamely.

  "Ah yes, I could see it all!" Mike had a faraway look in his eyes.

  "He's off!"

  "We were going to conquer the Industry. Front page of the P & R Weekly. Fellowships of the Royal Institute of Chemistry. Learned papers in all the major journals. Patents in 46 different countries. Maybe a book with a chapter from each of us on an aspect of the technology - do you remember, Dave, we did all that work on the structure and mechanisms. That would have made a jolly good opening chapter."

  "Well, it would if Folklore's secretary ever gets time to type up the manuscript, she's had it for six months, now."

  "What's keeping her so long?"

  "It's the Old Twerp's American Report. (* See Author's note Page 134) Threw everything so badly out of gear that she's never caught up with the typing. It's up to 200 pages this year, you know."

  "I've read it" interrupted Grey virtuously from the doorway.

  "More fool you!" growled Pat as he threw the matchbox unsuccessfully at Mike's cup. "I have never seen such a pile of utter drivel. Words fail me!" He laid his arms on his desk and buried his head in them. "Wake me when it's time to go home" his muffled voice appealed.

  "See what you've done!" said Mike to Grey. "He was on the Guinness last night. I thought we had a chance to get him through the day until you came and upset him."

  "I just thought I ought to warn you to be ready."

  "Gee, thanks!" retorted Dave. "Same as last time, Pat?"

  "Up the P20/28 by half a percent" came the muffled reply.

  "Anything you say!" He took a blank printed run sheet from his desk with a sigh and wrote in 'Run 249' at the top before filling in the fourteen chemical streams which the process now demanded in the fruitless search for improved strength. "Why should Peddle enjoy peace of mind any longer than is absolutely necessary" he said as he got up to take the details next door.

  Peddle groaned "I thought it was too good to last! Three whole weeks without one. I was just beginning to relax and look forward to my pension."

  "This one's up to our usual standard. Fourteen streams and all the same old complications." He laid it before him and waited while he perused it thoughtfully, as always.

  "Do you really need all these?"

  "Pat says so. It's nothing to do with me any more, I'm just the lackey who does the paperwork."

  "I hate to keep appearing to be anti. but we couldn't possibly run this as a production process. It'd take all day to set up and there are fourteen things to go wrong, too."

  "You are preaching to the converted!"

  "I know I am. Just thinking aloud, that's all. When are you proposing to run it?"

  "I don't know. Never, if Pike has his way, but Grey says that Folklore is pressing it with the Executive."

  "He'll have to press pretty hard. Pike is fully justified, you know. Business is so good at the moment that we are hard pressed to cope even working all day Saturday, and he's even contemplating Sunday morning, this week. I could do with a weekend off, myself. I've done all day for the last four Saturdays and I won't thank Folklore for depriving me of yet another one."

  "By the way, I heard a rumour that we've got a production order for it."

  "That's what Pike phoned me about just before you came in. Trotter & Globe would like to use some for a special outlet and they aren't bothered about tear strength - in fact it's an advantage because their cutting machines like it. Could be very useful, give us a bit of production experience with a consistent formulation."

  "Ah, yes - but which one will you use?"

  "What would you recommend?"

  "If you aren't worried about tear strength, what about the Old Mark One?"

  "Precisely my own thoughts. Seven streams and we know it works."

  "Folklore will want to run it on an experimental basis, like this one" pointing to the run sheet.

  "Folklore can go and get jacked up because it's nothing to do with him. It will be my responsibility and the Works Manager will support me all the way!"

  "Let me know when you'll be starting and I'll come and lend a hand, I don't seem to have much else to do these days."

  "Thanks." Peddle smiled. "It'll be just like old times."

  Folklore got nowhere with the Works Manager, sidestepped Millar who anyway no longer cared, and telephoned Anderson. Anderson thought from his distant office at Headquarters that it was good politics to support the Development Department and called the Works Manager to request that he examine all avenues to see if he could accomodate Mr Folklore's request. The Works Manager, wary of the possible dangers of appearing to be uncooperative agreed that he would do his utmost to see if the run could be fitted in and so phoned Pike to ask if the Works programme could be compressed enough to give them Saturday afternoon. Pike said "No!" three times, each time louder than the one before and changed the subject, which was the nearest he actually dared to go to being abusive to his boss. The Works Manager wearily called Anderson to tell him that it was not on and Anderson instructed his secretary to send Folklore a memo to that effect.

  It appeared on his desk the following morning and he immediately summoned his secretary to draft a reply (with a copy to the GM Himself), pointing out at great length the importance of keeping up the momentum of the development effort and requesting him to bring all his influence to bear. Anderson was in the act of sending an abusive reply when he noticed the circulation list and instead got his secretary to send a memo to the Works Manager requesting that he leave no stone unturned in his attempts to oblige Mr Folklore and sent copies to both the GM and Folklore.

  The General Manager's secretary screwed up both memoes and threw them into her wastepaper basket after only a cursory glance.

  The Works Manager, upon receipt of Anderson's memo, sent a memo to Pike, requesting that he review the situation and, if it were humanly possible to do so without upsetting the customers, would fit in an experimental run. He was careful to send copies to both Anderson and Folklore. Pike let the memo sit in his 'in tray' until the weekend. The circulating of memoes had effectively delayed matters for almost a week and the following programme showed a downturn in trade such that Saturday morning was free and he could give the men overtime at Folklore's expense and book off a few accumulating deficits to Development at the same time, thus finishing the month with his Works Figures nicely in the black.

  Peddle, George and Dan, Dan the Catalyst Man were toiling through the elaborate business of calibrating the fourteen streams, made more difficult these days because the maintenance engineers had reorganised the layout of the console without consulting anybody. What had been a simple matter of turning a knob and reading a gauge now required two men because all the knobs were too far from their respective gaug
es and it was impossible to read the gauge and turn the knob at the same time. Exceptionally, the water flow gauge was bolted to a stanction four feet forward of its control knob, and could be set by one person if he was extremely short sighted and had very long arms. Fortunately George was usually available. George himself was a further obstacle to progress since his overnight conversion to an obscure religious sect. According to Dan, he had had a religious experience when a fork lift truck ran over his foot, causing him to lose control of his bowels and, although most people were sceptical of his explanation it was undeniably true that he had acquired a limp following the purchase of a tight-looking pair of totectors and carried a copy of the Old Testament wherever he went. This morning it lay alongside the run sheet on the control console and he referred to either with more or less equal frequency. Pike was most put out that he refused to work on Sundays.

  "Come to see the usual pile of your rubbish" he greeted Dave as he reached the top of the stairs.

  "You'll give a prayer for our success, perhaps?"

  "I wouldn't waste the Good Lord's time!"

  "Well, how about praying that Folklore trips up on the stairs, then?"

  "I will pray for you to see the light" he returned piously. Dave was about to make a particularly unsavoury reply when Grey's head appeared on the stairway. It was his third visit already and they were only half way through the calibrations.

  "Any news?"

  "Tell him 11.15 if all goes well" supplied Peddle kindly. They all knew what it was like for him, cooped up in the office with an impatient Folklore. It was a truly noble gesture on his part, he was not obliged to come in, but he always did, accepting the burden of keeping Folklore out of the way until the run was ready to start.

  "Is Pat here yet?" He climbed up a few more steps and his body came into view. He was wearing the standard Saturday (Management) garb of corduroy trousers and polo-necked sweater.

  "You won't see him before half past ten. Strikes me he's the only one of you lot that's got any sense."

  "You mean he's the only one who regularly gets stoned out of his tiny mind on Friday nights" Dik's voice came unexpectedly from the direction of the back way round.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I came in to do a bit of welding on the old motor. Bloody sight better reason than yours, I expect" he sniffed distainfully. "I came round to see if you'd had enough and are coming up the canteen for a cuppa."

  "You might just as well", opined Peddle. "Come back in half an hour or so, we'll have performed the Ceremony of the Bath by then."

  "Aha! Do you see what I see." Dik pointed to the canvas awning which had recently been erected over the toxic waste disposal area and which was the Safety Officer's pride and joy. Overnight rain had collected in pockets which had stretched under the weight of water and now held a huge quantity, suspended over the TDI and catalyst scrap drums. The scaffolding framework was sagging under the load.

  "This calls for Bobski!" he cried. "To the pilot plant!"

  He waited for a count of four thuds and opened the pilot plant door. Bobski had just pinned the departmental dartboard to the door with his throwing knives, made from ground down king-size hacksaw blades, the handles created by winding insulating tape over the back half.

  "Got an important job for you. Bring a knife and come this way."

  "What you want?"

  "Come and look."

  Bobski was clearly reluctant to leave his practicing session but curiosity overcame him. "What I want my knife for?"

  "You'll see!"

  He unskewered the dartboard. "First I show you old Polish trick. Mais first need Polish Vodka!" He drained a plastic cup of clear liquid in a single gulp, his eyes showing white all round the edges for a few seconds as he fought for breath. "Is good for TDI. You want some?"

  "No thanks" they both replied hastily.

  "I show you trick. You need steady hand, like Pole. I been in war, got good nerves!" He spread the fingers of his left hand on the pilot plant desk and proceeded to stab the wood between each finger in turn, the heavy blade sinking half an inch into the desktop each time. As he gained rhythm, the speed increased until the knife was a blur.

  "Can you do it with the other hand?"

  Bobski held up his right. Three fingers were held together with adhesive tape. "I been trying"

  "You are a complete madman, but I need you. This way!"

  Bobski's eyes lit on the bulging canvas awnings, an expression of devilment filled his eyes and he rushed at the defenceless toxic waste unit with a shriek, the like of which would have struck fear into a German tank commander, let alone the safety officer who just then came round the corner, too late to stop the massacre. Dave and Dik fled in the direction of the canteen, their departure obscured by a mighty cascade of water as Bobski, knife in each hand, bayonetted the awnings.

  "Hello, I don't like the look of this!" Dave was abruptly sobered by the sight of Millar's Jensen with Anderson in the passenger seat, heading for the Development Block.

  "I expect they're getting fed up with old Folklore's bullshit and have come to have a look for themselves."

  "Can't say I blame them. We must be costing the Company a fortune."

  "Grey said we were over the quarter million, a couple of months back."

  "Not a great deal to show for it, either. I reckon we would have been better off if we had left it to my old HR process."

  "I doubt it, given enough time, we can mismanage anything!"

  At 11.15 the calibrations were finally complete and the maintenance fitter summoned to assemble the dispensing head. Peddle, with a sense of distant foreboding, pulled down the telephone from the top of the console and informed Anderson, Millar and Folklore who were all foregathered in Millar's office. Grey, unexpectedly relieved of his burden had disappeared into the lab. and missed the run (Folklore didn't bother to tell him on the way through). He also called Pike who would wish to be present for political reasons. A heavily hungover Pat had also arrived.

  By 11.20 all was ready. The management were dispersed all over the Plant, done up in varying degrees of protective clothing. The pumps were all churning away and the Mighty Fans switched on, blanketing everything in their incredible envelope of white sound made even louder since the installation of the blower fans. It was many months later that a TDI test taken outside the main door of the Plant building showed a reading of 0.04ppm, twice the TLV. They were recycling their own air, and the Plant operators still wore respirators!

  "What are we waiting for?" Anderson asked Millar as minutes passed with no activity and all apparently in readiness.

  "What are we waiting for?" repeated Millar to Folklore.

  "Why are we waiting?" Folklore asked Pat.

  "What's the holdup?" Pat asked Peddle.

  "Can we start up?" Peddle asked George, who was reading a psalm.

  "Catalyst man's not on station."

  "Well, where is he?"

  "Gone to the lavatory. With his newspaper."

  Peddle groaned "oh, no! He'll be gone for ages, if I know Dan."

  "Can't we start without him?"

  "Only if you are prepared to take his place."

  "I'm not crawling into that filthy hole for anybody!" Dan had to operate a switch on the fourteenth line, jury rigged and positioned with typical thoughtfulness so that to reach it he had to get down on hands and knees underneath the pigment tanks, a most unpleasant prospect.

  "The catalyst man's gone off to the toilet" said Peddle heavily (or as heavily as it was possible to make his expression when all communication was carried out at a high pitched screech above the Fans) to Pat. "And" he continued as Pat opened his mouth "we can't start without him."

  "Well, can't you get him out?"

  "If you try, he'll only take twice as long, out of spite."

  "I can't tell Folklore that!"

  "There is an alternative."

  "What?"

  "You see unde
r there" he pointed under the row of pigment tanks, each streaked liberally with the colour of the dye inside it. The floor underneath resembled a surrealist painting of the worst type, where the colours had mingled into an oily rainbow. "If you stand in for him and crawl in under there to switch on the pump, we can go ahead."

  Pat shuddered. "You have to be joking!" He turned to an impatient Folklore. "We are waiting for the catalyst man."

  "Where is he?"

  Pat's courage failed him. "We don't know. But he's not on station and we can't start without him."

  "I can't tell Mr Millar that we are all standing around at the catalyst operative's pleasure."

  "What's that?" bellowed Millar.

  "There is an engineering fault." he invented hastily. "We will have to wait for it to be put right."

  "Good god man! I can't tell Mr Anderson that we are standing about like a lot of stuffed dummies because the engineers can't do their job properly."

  "What's that?" shouted Anderson from his vantage point.

  "One of the filters has blocked up. It can happen any time. Just one of those things. Very unfortunate" he added diplomatically.

  "How long will it take?"

  "I don't know." He turned to Folklore. "How long will we have to wait?"

  Folklore shook his head and asked Pat, who in turn asked Peddle. "About how long will he be?" he asked George. "Management's getting impatient."

  "Serves 'em right for coming in" he retorted unhelpfully. "Let me see - he had got up to Page Three during teabreak and the nude was a bit scruffy today, so she won't detain him for long. The jokes on the middle page and a fuller than usual racecard should take him about ten minutes. Quarter of an hour if he decides to pull his wire."

  Peddle blushed, picked up a sheet of paper and wrote boldly upon it with his felt pen 'ABOUT 10 MINS' before holding it up so that they all could see.

  The Plant and all its servants stood and waited beneath the brain-numbing cacophany of the Mighty Fans for seventeen long minutes until the wellington booted figure at last appeared with a bland, repleted expression from the direction of the catalyst room khazi.

  "Thank God for that" exclaimed Peddle with a distinctly frayed voice.

  George glared at him. "Blasphemous Philistine, may He forgive you. I will pray that the Lord in His infinite mercy may spare you from the Fires of Hell." He turned to the control console, picked up the Old Testament and with his back to the assembly addressed it with the whole of psalm 88 while the rows of dials and gauges stared mutely back.

  "Here endeth the Lesson!" muttered Peddle behind his back as he laid the Book reverently back beside the run sheet.

  "I am now ready" he exclaimed with the lilt of the lay preacher still in his voice.

  The run took about seven minutes and seemed to be satisfactory.

  All that remained was to follow the blocks past the cut-off saw and along the series of conveyor belts into the Holding Stores for testing on Monday, and they could all go home. Everybody, including Grey, who had eventually come round too late to check on progress, but with the exception of George who had remained behind at the control console to tidy up the paperwork, was down at the far end watching the operative numbering them up before they passed through the firedoor and into the jurisdiction of the storeman. Even the Fans sounded as if they were beginning to relax a little in their unremitting task and Dave was thinking about his garden as he watched the operative casually lean across to pull the last block straight and crayon in its number. It was Young Bernie, one of the big pools winners, spent up and back on the line in less than a year. " Hadn't even bought himself a new pullover out of his œ112 000" he thought, observing the ancient garment which he habitually wore to combat the gale force winds generated by the Fans as a loose thread from it caught in one of the conveyor belt's driving rollers and quite slowly and deliberately started to wind him into the machinery.

  The realisation of impending tragedy struck all of them at about the same moment and, hard on the shock of what was happening before their eyes the further realisation that there was no way they could stop the machine except through George, who was probably at that moment on his knees, invoking the Lord's blessing for the accuracy of his weekly stock reconciliation and the Mighty Fans would drown any cries of warning they might make. Grey, Peddle and Pike sprinted together along the building towards the stairway, all arriving simultaneously so that Pike and Peddle cannoned into each other and went sprawling on the greasy floor, leaving Grey to take the stairs three at a time and arrive alone at the console. George was not there. Panic rose in him as he stared helplessly at the complex maze of knobs, dials and flowmeters, most of them innocent of any kind of labelling and he was still twittering in glassy-eyed frustration when a bloody-nosed Peddle pushed past him to bang down the master switch, cunningly concealed round the far side of the panel. The Plant went into an instant mechanical coma, all the little red pilot lights went off, the conveyors lurched to an abrupt stop and the Fans did their usual imitation of a Boeing 707 coming into land.

  Peddle wiped his face with his sleeve and stared in astonishment at the bright red stain. "I hope we were in time." he said in the sudden silence.

  "I didn't know what to do." replied Grey lamely.

  "Hardly your fault." He produced a handkerchief to mop up the remainder of the blood from his face "I think Pike hurt his leg but I didn't stop to find out."

  There was nobody at the foot of the stairway but they soon found them all crowded around the figure spreadeagled across the conveyor. Pike was limping at the edge of the throng while Pat and Dave were engaged in sawing through the remains of the pullover to free him.

  "Are you alright, Bernie?" enquired Pike anxiously of the red-faced victim.

  "I can't think of any better way to earn my living!" he retorted, straining his neck backwards so that he could meet his eye.

  "You'll put in a claim for a new pullover, I wouldn't want you to be out of pocket over this" he returned with relief showing in his voice. "We'll have you out in a minute."

  Pat sawed through the last threads and they lifted him clear, bruised and frightened, but substantially in one piece. "That was a very close call." said Peddle thoughtfully as they examined the red wheal across the small of his back.

  "A lesson learned" said Pike. "I shall see to it that we have safety stop buttons installed." He rubbed his knee gently. "How's your nose?"

  "It hurts! Your leg OK?"

  "No worse than his back, fortunately."

  The distant bell of his telephone woke Dave from the depths of sleep. He groaned and registered the fact that it was Sunday morning.

  "What's that?" his wife asked, sleepily.

  "Wrong number, I expect."

  "We don't usually get many on a Sunday. What time is it?"

  "Five to seven."

  "Whoever it is, they're very persistent." He reluctantly climbed out of bed and went downstairs to answer it.

  "Hello?" he demanded grumpily.

  "Evans Here!" The unmistakeable tones of the Safety Officer at the factory sang into his ear.

  "What the Hell do you want at this time of day?"

  "It's about that fireproof foam you people made yesterday. Well, it caught fire at half past four this morning." He almost dropped the handset as Evans continued good humouredly. "It burned out most of the Holding Stores. Made a really shocking mess of it! The fire brigade have just gone so I thought you might like to come over and have a look at what's left."

  "Thanks. I'll be right over." He was recovering from the shock with a speed that surprised him. "Do me a favour?"

  "Anything, man, so long as it's legal!"

  "Let Mr Folklore know. I don't see why he should lie in any longer than me."

  He was treading through the black, waterlogged mess of charred debris that was all that remained of the Holding Stores in a blatantly futile search for clues when he saw Folklore picking his way past a heap
of collapsed conveyor belting on his way to meet him. He stopped and waited for him to come over.

  "Good morning" he greeted him dejectedly. "Not one of our better efforts!"

  "Have you any idea why it happened?"

  "It's anybody's guess. Partial or total failure of one of the components and most likely the flame retardent. With fourteen to keep an eye on, it's easy to miss a flicker on a gauge."

  "Well, find out all you can. It is most important that we have all the facts straight for the Board."

  "You know my views." He couldn't be bothered with finesse. "The process is just about unworkable at the present level of complexity. Peddle is of the same opinion." (He hoped that he would forgive him for invoking his name).

  Folklore furrowed his brow into one of his deepest and very best frowns. "You are saying that you cannot control the process adequately?"

  "Quite correct, Mr Folklore. Given the present level of makeshift rigging up that has to be done, I cannot."

  "Then it seems that I must find somebody who can." He turned and picked his way back around the puddles and piles of destroyed equipment and Dave watched him thoughtfully until he disappeared from view through the open doorway.