by Mark Clifton
I did take up the problem, tentatively, with Colonel Backhead. Along with other private industries working on hush-hush government contracts, we had our contingent of Army-Air Force-Navy personnel, who acted to interpret contracts, pass on plans and specifications, inspect output, needle the security police into ever increasing suspicions of everybody, stamp Top Secret on every piece of paper they saw. An organization within an organization. “A cancerous growth in the body of free enterprise,” Old Stone Face would mutter when he was particularly perturbed by some foolish regulation.
Still, I'd got to the point of desperation. I'd even accept an idea from Colonel Backhead, if he had one. He did, and it astonished me.
"Good thing such a thing doesn't exist,” he said in his clipped, raspy tones. “Rob a bank too easy."
Now what kind of a subconscious mind did he have?
Repeated failure and time dulled my enthusiasm for the quest. Other wheels were squeaking louder than my five lads; Company wheels, and Military wheels.
A certain realization also dulled my search, and faced me with defeat. Both industry and science are founded upon the basic premise that there cannot be perfect communication and coordination between individuals. The procedures are all set up to compensate for that lack. Deeper still, like any hypothesis founded upon a basic premise that is unquestioned, all theories and questions are shaped by that premise, and all evidence is rationalized to fit it-like the wondrous structure of astronomy built around Ptolemy's basic premise that the Earth was the center of the universe. It takes a complete breakthrough, a destruction of the basic premise, before we can think of the questions, much less arrive at answers.
I would have to be a Copernicus to think of something for George to do-and I wasn't.
I salved my conscience over the broken promise to the five lads by rationalizing that this betrayal was no more than any other young grad could expect. Most of them came in with bright hopes, eager ambitions, wondrous talents, and one by one we ground them down to fit into the total organization machine. They were malleable material. That was evidenced by the fact that their college had been able to pound and pummel them all into the same mental and attitude shape, so that they all could come out of the same production machine. Industry would follow the same process, and in five, ten, twenty years they would be unmistakably business executives. Was that bad?
What a terrible waste of unusual talents! Still, what could I do? If George was so unusual, let him find his own niche! Every other employee had to!
Accepting the rationalization was gall, but what else? And in the meantime, I did have other problems, problems I could solve.
Six months went by. A short time in the span of a lifetime job, a long time to a bright young trainee who took a temporary job only until something better, to make use of his unusual abilities, could be worked out. I forgot about the five guys. No special trouble over them came to my attention, and they became just five out of five thousand employees.
I had never accepted George as more than a hypothetical idea, and my wisdom in this course was apparent. If George did exist, he wasn't making his presence known to anybody. I even rationalized George away. Kids often dream up imaginary companions, talk to them, insist that mother set a place at the table for them, make a place for them in their beds. Such a thing had occurred to these five lads when they were kids-and because of their constant association they'd simply kept the idea alive. But now that they had jobs in separate departments, and were growing up, taking on more adult responsibilities in their jobs, the whole childish idea would soon appear silly to them.
I was glad I'd always kept it purely hypothetical when talking with the engineers and scientists.
With that final rationalization, I dismissed them from my mind completely. In the usual sink-or-swim fashion, they would either climb on up in their jobs through the usual channels, or they wouldn't. Until they became troublesome, they were none of my affair-now.
My little psi machines had likewise been discarded. Association and consequent guilt feelings? Something as childish as the idea of George?
The months slipped away, and almost a year passed. I had forgot the boys.
* * * *
My phone rang with that long, persistent shrill the switchboard operator uses to tell me that Old Stone Face is on the other end of the wire and chomping impatiently.
"Kennedy here,” I said, before I'd got the phone well up to my face.
"What have you been up to this time, Kennedy?” His voice had that patient, measured, grating tone he uses when he is particularly disgusted.
"What is it now, Mr. Grenoble?” I asked with a patience as deadly as his own. Old Stone Face is always saying that he doesn't meddle, and then proceeds to louse up labor relations.
"You must have been up to something,” he said. “The Army, the Navy, the Air Force, the Marines, the Coast Guard are crawling all over me. I haven't heard yet from the Girl Scouts,” he finished with a plaintive note creeping into his voice.
"What about?” I asked. I was busily running over my many programs in my mind to see which might be interpreted as cardinal sins by the military, but I couldn't think of anything.
"Sometimes I wish the services hadn't combined,” the plaintive note was stronger now. “Used to be, when they played dog in the manger toward each other a business man could appeal to reason-or at least prejudice. But now-"
"What's happened"” I asked again.
"Maybe you'd better come up here to my office,” he said. Then, as an afterthought, “When it is convenient for you.” The latter was a sop to his often repeated but seldom observed lecture that company executives should show mutual respect toward one another.
"It's convenient right now,” I said. We both knew it was a fiction, that he meant get there on the double, and I'd better interpret it that way.
I took a short-cut through factory building Number Two, and had to fend off two supervisors who saw me coming and thought it would be a good time to get in some juicy grievances. One of them did get in a few words before I could tell him that Mr. Grenoble was waiting for me.
"I think I oughta be told what's going on in my own department,” he complained. “Even the stock room knows more about production schedules than I do. Sometimes they load the bins with raw stock a full day before I get the work orders telling me what to do with it."
"I'll speak to production control,” I said hurriedly. “Or you take it up with the works manager. It's his baby, not mine."
His eyes reproached me for passing the buck, but I was already too far away from him to smooth him down.
When I passed through the secretary's office, I raised my eyebrows in a question and nodded toward Old Stone Face's door. She made a sign of holding a shield over her head, or hiding under the covers, to tell me that he wasn't at his most affable today. She picked up her shorthand book and followed me into his office.
"What's the trouble, Mr. Grenoble?” I greeted him, and sat down in a chair, informally. His secretary sat down in another, formally, and poised her pencil.
"The trouble is that the Pentagon is sending investigation teams of their bright boys to find out how we do it,” he grumbled.
"Do what"” I asked.
He glowered at me as if I were stalling.
"Finish up contracts on time,” he exploded.
"You mean we actually met a deadline, and the product passed inspection?” I asked, puzzled.
"Not just one,” he said. “Four!"
He got up from behind his desk, clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing the floor. I remembered television shots where a head football coach would start pacing up and down in front of the player benches. All the sub coaches would leap to their feet and start pacing, too. I wondered if Old Stone Face felt I should.
"It's unheard of,” he whirled around and shouted at me. “They draw up a contract. They put in a deadline for performance. Then every time somebody in Congress sneezes, or some petty politician in Eu
rope spouts off a lot of nonsense, they scrap everything and start all over. As soon as a contract gets signed, the Pentagon starts throwing rocks at our feet to make us stumble over them. Nobody ever finishes a contract on time, it just isn't possible, and here we've finished four. So there's going to be an investigation. So what have you been up to, Kennedy?"
I felt like saying, “Who, me?” or “Honest, boss, I didn't do it."
"First time I ever got a complaint that the organization was functioning as it should,” was what I really said.
He whirled around from the window where he had been gazing disconsolately out at the smog.
"Oh, I'll grant you that if we were let alone, it's no more than I'd expect,” he conceded-and he would expect it, too. “But the Military is involved, and they're not used to efficiency. They just don't know how to cope with it."
"But we've got Colonel Backhead and his gang ... er, staff ... of bright boys watching every move we make,” I argued. “Have they found any fault?"
For the first time his face brightened a little.
"It all sneaked up on them, too. Caught ’em with their contracts down. When they realized it they went all frozen faced on me, gave me the silent treatment. They've been busy as little beavers ever since they realized what was happening. Doing their own investigating before the real investigation begins."
"Maybe I'm naive,” I said. “I still don't see what all the fuss is about."
"It isn't normal,” he said. “And anything that isn't normal sends them into a gibbering tizzy. I've asked Backhead if he'd mind stepping in here. He minded, but he said he'd do it."
"Backhead and I are not exactly buddies,” I said. “You know that, Henry. I refused to allow them to turn this place into a swarm of keyhole peekers and tattlers, and in his mind that's pretty strong evidence that I must be working for the enemy."
"I appreciate it, Ralph,” he said in a grudging tone. “Nothing wrecks an organization quicker than to encourage informers. That's why I backed you up."
"So maybe you'll get farther with Backhead if I'm not here."
"Maybe I won't get anywhere at all, with or without you,” he mumbled. “But I want you to stay.” He grabbed up the phone and barked at the switchboard operator. “Check Backhead's office and see if he is coming."
"It's only been five minutes,” his secretary cautioned.
He glowered at her and threw up his hands, as if to say that everyone was fighting against him. The phone tingled, and he grabbed it up.
"His office says he's already on the way,” the thin, tinny voice of the operator sounded loud through the receiver.
"Probably stopped to harass some—” A discreet tap at his door stopped his comment.
"Let's be calm,” I said, as the secretary got up to open the door and admit the colonel.
I have since thought it was the look of intense irritation Old Stone Face threw me as the colonel came through the door, which melted Backhead down rather easily. He probably thought Grenoble was sore at me, and this would be his chance to cut my throat.
Still he must have come prepared for he had his black brief case with TOP SECRET in big gold letters embossed on its side, to advertise its contents, or its owner's importance.
We got through amenities, such as they were, pretty hurriedly.
"Must be quite a feather in your cap, colonel,” I said brightly. “With repeated contracts under your jurisdiction getting out on time-I suppose the Pentagon wants to study how it's done, so they can install the same procedures elsewhere? Probably put you in charge on a national scale?"
It set him back. It was obvious he hadn't thought of it in that light, before. So intently looking for the evil, he hadn't even considered there might be good. And he wasn't ready to start now.
There was a good deal of humming and hawing, a full fifteen minutes worth, before he was ready for us to get a peek at what he had in his brief case. And when he dragged it out, it was evident that his staff had been busy. They had names, dates, facts, times, and figures.
"On March 7th, at 9:45 a.m., the design drawings on the ... um ... a certain mechanism was released to the mechanical drawing department. As according to procedure, a certain mechanical engineer, one James P. Bellows, analyzed these drawings preparatory to breaking them down into job lots for the detailed mechanical drawings which would later become the blueprints for this ... ah ... certain mechanism.” He looked at me. “Does the name, James P. Bellows, mean anything to you, Mr. Kennedy?” he asked ominously.
"No-o,” I said honestly.
"It would mean more to me,” he said heavily, “if your department had released his file to my staff, as they were requested to do.
Good old faithful personnel clerks!
"No such request came to my attention,” I said coldly. “And you know procedure requires all such requests must go through the head of a department."
"There are times, in the interests of national security, when—” he left the sentence dangling.
Yes, when the department head was, himself, suspected.
He didn't pursue it. He picked up another sheet from the stack.
"That was on March 7th, at 9:45 a.m.” he reminded. “On the same date, at 11:20, the Acme Components Company-who patriotically opened all their records to us without question-received a telephone order, from your Purchasing Department, bearing your Purchase Order Number 4136872K requesting urgent delivery of six gross ... ah ... of a certain item which is used only in the assembly of that aforesaid mechanism. This was only one hour and thirty-five minutes from the time the design drawings were released to the mechanical drawing department, and seven weeks before all the drawings were released for processing to the various departments.
"A careful check of this one contract alone shows many instances where your Purchasing Department bought materiel, before they could have obtained, through normal channels, the information of what they needed to buy; your Production Control Department issued work orders to your own various production departments to make component parts of this ... ah ... mechanism, weeks before they had received the drawings telling them what to make."
"The works manager must have finally got off the dime and started doing his job,” Old Stone Face said sourly. There is a bitter feud between the two. Henry hired the works manager under protest. He was recommended by the Military and tied to certain contracts. But he'd been in charge of a civil service project before he came to us, and he'd brought their kind of thinking with him. So there was not exactly a sympathetic harmony between the general manager and the works manager.
"The works manager knows nothing of this,” Colonel Backhead said crisply.
"That figures,” Henry said.
"He has been most cooperative,” Backhead commented. “Without him we couldn't have got anywhere in this preliminary survey, which, I trust, will save much valuable time for the investigating committee."
"Oh I'm sure,” I murmured.
"Our survey has not been definitive,” Backhead continued. “But we have uncovered an incredible number of incidents, where, under normal procedure things could not have happened in the way they did. In all, five departments seem most involved-Mechanical Engineering, Electronics Engineering, Cybernetics Engineering, Production Control and Purchasing Departments."
"That just about covers the bulk of our production planning departments,” I commented.
"And I find that the majority of these items seem to have originated with, or gone through the hands of a single individual in each of those departments. Bellows, whom I've named; a Claude N. Masters, William Huffman, Thomas Meuhl, and one Robert Osborne. The reason I am frank about these names at this time is that I expect the same frankness from you, Mr. Kennedy. There is an obvious out-of-procedure communication about Top Secret material among these men. You have not been too cooperative in the past, but the Pentagon has overlooked it because ... er ... your file reveals nothing conclusively discreditable."
"You mean Oliver Cromwell woul
d approve of me?” I asked dryly.
He ignored it.
"So I'm making this last appeal for your wholehearted cooperation. What do you know of these men?"
"Nothing,” I said instantly.
He raised his eyebrows and pursed his little mouth.
"Look,” I said. “We've got five thousand employees. My department interviews a couple hundred new applications every day, many of them come to my desk for study. I make no attempt whatever to memorize names or case histories; that's why we have records. I have probably seen those names on departmental employee lists many times, but they ring no bells for me."
"But you will instantly make your records available to me,” he said confidently.
And now I knew what made him tick. Quite aside from the desire to button this all up before the reps from Pentagon got here and the feather in his cap, he wanted to muckrake all down through our records. We'd had security police like him, men who, on their own time, would stake out all night close to some woman employee's house to see if they could uncover some amorous situation. It was a filthy kind of mind that was permeating our whole social structure.
"No,” I said flatly. “I'll wait for the accredited Pentagon officials.
He stuffed his papers back into his brief case, snapped its lock, stood up, glared at me, and stalked out of the office.
"I don't know, Ralph,” Grenoble said with a worried shake of the head. “He's a mean one. He can hurt."
"I'd rather wash dishes for a living,” I said, “than help that kind of a guy along."
"Sometimes I think we'd be better off without government contracts,” he said in a tone which suggested it wasn't the first time he'd thought of it. “Profits or no profits."
"They've made the whole security program into a blind for the real purpose of enforcing an Oliver Cromwell kind of morality,” I said. “And you can't kick, because that would make you an enemy sympathizer and in favor of unbridled sin."