Purcell snapped, "Put that down!"
Letting go as if it were red-hot, Hancock complained, "If they've started operations on a new planet, Collister's department should have notified us in the proper manner. I object to this sloppy method of passing news along by word of mouth during lunch-hour gossip. Essential information should be transmitted in writing and distributed to all the individuals concerned."
"Collister's crowd know nothing about Nemo."
"Don't they? Why not?"
"I just invented it," said Purcell evenly.
"You invented it?"
"That's what I said." Completing the form, Purcell smacked it with a huge red stamp bearing the letters TP, then with a smaller one reading Consign via Alipan B417. While Hancock goggled at him he signed it, shoved it into the pneumatic tube. Within four minutes the radio facsimile would be flashed Earthward.
Hancock said, aghast, "You must be mad."
"Crazy like a fox," admitted Purcell, undisturbed.
"They won't accept a requisition for an unregistered planet without official advice of its discovery and notification of its co-ordinates."
"The demand is an advice and I included the coordinates."
"They'll check on this," warned Hancock.
"With whom? The department for Nemo?"
"There isn't one," said Hancock.
"Correct. They'll have to check with Yehudi."
"They'll find out sooner or later that they've been taken. There will be trouble. I want you to know, Purcell, that I hereby disclaim all responsibility for this. Officially I know nothing whatever about it. It is solely and wholly your own pigeon."
"Don't worry. I'm willing to accept the full credit for a praiseworthy display of initiative. Anyway, by that time the bugologist will have got his equipment and all the flics will be dead."
Hancock simmered down for five minutes then took on a look of horror as a new thought struck him. "If they load three-eighty pounds of scientific hardware, it's highly likely that they won't load the gin."
"That's what I like about it."
"Letheren will run amok."
"Let him," said Purcell. "He thinks he's heap big. To me he's just a big heap."
"Purcell, I will accept no responsibility for this."
"So you said before." Then he added with some menace, "Always bear one thing in mind, Hancock—I don't look as daft as I am!"
At Terra the indent landed on Bonhoeffer's desk, he being in charge of the Incoming Mail (Pre-sorting) Department. Bonhoeffer was a real woman's man, big, handsome, muscular, stupid. He owed his eminence solely to the fact that while in ten years the incoming mail had increased by twelve per cent the number of his subordinates had gone up one hundred forty per cent. This was more or less in accordance with the rules laid down by Professor C. Northcote Parkinson.* (*Parkinson's Law. circa 1958.)
Bonhoeffer picked up the form with much reluctance. It was the only item on his desk. The slaves dealt with everything as a matter of daily routine and nothing was brought to his personal attention unless there was something awkward about it. This suited him topnotch; it gave him plenty of time not to think.
So he knew in advance that this particular form contained the subject of an administrative quibble and that he must demonstrate his intelligence by finding it alone and unaided. Slowly and carefully he read it from top to bottom four times. As far as he could see there was nothing wrong with it. This irritated him. It meant that he must summon the individual who had passed the invisible buck and do him the honor of asking his opinion.
He examined the form's top left corner to see who would be thus honored. The initials scrawled thereon were F. Y. That meant the buck-passer was Feodor Yok. He might have expected it. Yok was a clever bum, an office show-off. He looked like Rasputin with a crew-cut. And he wore the knowing smirk of a successful ambulance chaser. Bonhoeffer would rather drop dead than ask Yok the time of day.
That made things difficult. He studied the requisition another four times and still it looked plenty good enough to pass any determined faultfinder, even Yok. Then it occurred to him that there was an escape from this predicament. He, too, could transfer the grief, preferably to an eager beaver. It was as easy as that.
Switching his desk-box, he ordered, "Send in Quayle." Quayle arrived with his usual promptitude. He was built along the lines of a starving jackrabbit and tried to compensate for it with a sort of military obsequiousness. He wore a dedicated look and was the sort of creep who would salute an officer over the telephone.
"Ah, Quayle," began Bonhoeffer with lordly condescension. "I have been watching your progress with some interest."
"Really, sir?" said Quayle, toothy with delight. "Yes, indeed. I keep a careful eye on everyone though I doubt whether they realize it. The true test of managerial competence is the ability to depute responsibility. To do that one must know and understand the men under one. Naturally some are more competent than others. You gather my meaning, Quayle?"
"Yes, sir," agreed Quayle, straining to expand his halo. "York has seen fit to bring this requisition form to my attention." Bonhoeffer handed it over. "I was about to transfer it for necessary action when it occurred to me that it would be useful to know whether the question it raises is as obvious to you as it was to Yok and myself, also whether you can be as quick to determine what should be done about it."
Quayle's halo faded from sight while his face took on the look of a cornered rat. In complete silence he studied the form from end to end, reading it several times.
Finally he ventured in uncertain tones, "I can find nothing wrong with it, sir, except that it is a demand for Nemo. I don't recall seeing that planet upon the supply list."
"Very good, Quayle, very good," praised Bonhoeffer. "And what do you think should be done about it?"
"Well, sir," continued Quayle, vastly encouraged but still weak at the knees, "since the requisition emanates from Alipan, which is on the list, I'd say that it is valid so far as our department is concerned. Therefore I would pass it to the scientific division for confirmation of the reasons given and the correctness of the specification."
"Excellent, Quayle. I may as well say that you have come up to my expectations."
"Thank you, sir."
"I am a great believer in giving encouragement where it is deserved." Bonhoeffer bestowed a lopsided smile upon the other. "Since you have the form in your hands you may as well deal with it. Yok brought it in but I prefer that you handle it in person."
"Thank you, sir," repeated Quayle, the halo bursting forth in dazzling glory. He went out.
Bonhoeffer lay back and gazed with satisfaction at the empty desk.
In due course—meaning about three weeks—the scientific division swore and deposed that there really was such an article as a cobalt-60 irradiator and that it could in fact cause flies to indulge in futile woo. Quayle therefore attached this slightly obscene certificate to the requisition and passed it to the purchasing department for immediate attention.
He felt fully justified in doing this despite that the mysterious Nemo was still absent from the official supply list. After all, he had been authorized by Bonhoeffer to take the necessary action and the scientific division had duly certified that there was something with which to act. He was covered both ways, coming and going. In effect, Quayle was fire-proof, a much-to-be-desired state of existence.
The form and attached certificate now got dumped on Stanisland, an irascible character generally viewed as the offspring of a canine mother. Stanisland read them to the accompaniment of a series of rising grunts, found himself in the usual quandary. The purchasing department was supposed to know the prime sources of everything from peanuts to synthetic hormones. To that end it had a reference library so large that a fully equipped expedition was needed to get anywhere beyond the letter F. The library was used almost solely to demonstrate frenzied overwork whenever a high-ranking senior happened around, the safest place being atop the ladder.
It w
as easier to ask the right questions in the right places than to go on safari through a mile of books. Moreover Stanisland could admit ignorance of nothing in a room full of comparative halfwits. So he adopted his favorite tactic. Scowling around to make sure nobody was watching, he stuffed the papers into a pocket, got up, hoarsely muttered something about the men's room and lumbered out.
Then he trudged along three corridors, reached a bank of private phone booths, entered one, dialed the scientific division and asked for Williams. He uttered this name with poor grace because in his opinion Williams had been designed by Nature specifically to occupy a padded cell.
When the other came on, he said, "Stanisland, purchasing department, here."
"How's the bile flowing?" greeted Williams, conscious that neither was senior to the other.
Ignoring that, Stanisland went on, "You have issued certificate D2794018 against a cobalt-60 irradiator on demand by Alipan."
"I don't take your word for it," said Williams. "Give me that number again and wait while I trace the copy."
Stanisland gave it and waited. He stood there about ten minutes knowing full well that Williams was taking one minute to find the copy and allowing him the other nine in which to grow a beard. But he was impotent to do anything about it. Finally Williams came back.
"My, are you still there?" he asked in mock surprise. "Things must be pretty quiet in your department."
"If we were as bone-idle as other departments, we'd have no need to consult them," shouted Stanisland. "We'd have all the time in the world to dig up information for ourselves."
"Aha!" said Williams, nastily triumphant. "You don't know where to get an irradiator, eh?"
"It isn't a question of not knowing," Stanisland retorted. "It's a question of saving time finding out. If I search under C for cobalt, it won't be there. It won't be under I for irradiator either. Nor under S for sixty. In about a week's time I'll discover that it's under H because the correct technical name for it is a hyperdiddlic honey or something like that. Things would be a lot easier if you eggheads would make up your minds to call a spade a plain, ordinary spade and stick to it for keeps."
"Shame," said Williams.
"Furthermore," continued Stanisland with satisfying malice, "every alleged up-to-date supplement to the library comes to us seven years old. Why? Because your crowd keep 'em on file and won't part until they begin to stink."
"We need them to stay up-to-date ourselves," Williams pointed out. "The scientific division cannot afford to be behind the times."
"There you are then," said Stanisland, winning his point. "I don't want to know who was making rudimentary irradiators way back when television was two-dimensional. I want to know who is making them now. And I don't want to put in to Abelson an official complaint about delayed data and willful obstruction."
"Are you threatening me, you baggy-eyed tub?" asked Williams.
Stanisland started shouting again. "I don't want to touch Abelson with a ten-foot pole. You know what he's like."
"Yeah, I know, I know." Williams let go a resigned sigh. "Hold on a piece." This time he was gone twelve minutes before he returned and recited a short list of names and addresses.
Reaching his desk, Stanisland rewrote the list more clearly, attached it to the form and certificate, passed the bunch to a junior.
In tones hearable all over the office, he said, "It's a lucky thing that I had the handling of this demand. It so happens that I know all the people who make such a rare piece of apparatus. Now you get their estimates as quickly as possible and submit them to me."
Then he glared happily around at all and sundry, enjoying their dead faces and knowing that they were hating him deep in their hearts. By hokey, he'd shown them who most deserved to be jacked up a grade.
Forman Atomics quoted the lowest price and quickest delivery. A month later they got a request for copy of their authorization as an approved supplier. They mailed it pronto. Three days afterward they were required to send a sworn affidavit that their employees included not less than ten per cent of disabled spacemen. They sent it. Two intelligence agents visited their head office and satisfied themselves that the flag flying from the masthead was a genuine Terran one in substance and in fact.
Meanwhile a subordinate from the Finance (Investigation) Department made search through the files of the Companies (Registered Statistics) Department aided by two juniors belonging to that haven of rest. Between them they made sure that not one dollar of Forman stock was held or controlled by the representative of any foreign power, either in person or by nominee. Admittedly, there was no such thing in existence as a foreign power but that was beside the point.
By now the original requisition had attached to it the following:
1. The scientific division's certificate.
2. An interdepartmental slip signed by Quayle informing Stanisland that the requisition was passed to him for attention.
3. A similar slip signed by Bonhoeffer saying that he had ordered Quayle to do the passing.
4 to 11. Eight quotations for an irradiator, Forman's having been stamped: "Accepted subject to process."
12. A copy of Forman's supply authorization.
13. Forman's affidavit.
14. An intelligence report to the effect that whatever was wrong with Forman's could not be proved.
15. A finance department report saying the same thing in longer words.
Item twelve represented an old and completely hopeless attempt to buck the system. In the long, long ago somebody had made the mistake of hiring a fully paid-up member of Columbia University's Institute of Synergistic Statics. Being under the delusion that a line is the shortest distance between two points, the newcomer had invented a blanket-system of governmental authorizations which he fondly imagined would do away with items thirteen, fourteen and fifteen.
This dastardly attempt to abolish three departments at one fell blow had gained its just reward, a new department had been set up to deal with item twelve while the others had been retained. For creating this extra work the author of it had been hastily promoted to somewhere in the region of Bootes.
Stanisland added the sixteenth item in the shape of his own interdepartmental slip informing Taylor, the head of the purchasing department, that to the best of his knowledge and belief there were no remaining questions to be raised and that it was now for him to place the order. Taylor, who had not been born yesterday, showed what he thought of this indecent haste. Throwing away the overstrained paper-clip, he added his own slip to the wad, secured it with a wide-jawed bulldog fastener and fired it back at Stanisland.
The slip said, "You are or should be well aware that a consignment of this description may not be within the capacity of the Testing (Instruments) Department. If it is not, we shall require a certificate of efficiency from the Bureau of Standards. Take the necessary action forthwith."
This resulted in Stanisland taking a fast walk around the corridors while the surplus steam blew out of his ears. He had never liked Taylor who obviously enjoyed his seniority and would turn anyone base over apex for the sadistic pleasure of it. Besides, in his spare time the fellow lived the full life breeding piebald mice. With his beady eyes and twitching whiskers he bore close resemblance to his beloved vermin.
When pressure had dropped to the bearable, Stanisland returned to his desk, called a junior and gave him the wad plus a slip reading, "Can you test this thing?"
Within ten days all the papers came back accompanied by the reply. "For emission only. Not for functional purpose. To test for the latter we would require an adequate supply of the proposed subjects, namely and to wit, Nemo flies. Refer to Imports (Pest Control) Departments."
So he phoned through to Chase who was sunbathing by a window and brought him back to his desk and Chase said with unnecessary surliness, "Importation forbidden."
"Can you quote authority for that?" asked Stanisland.
"Certainly," snapped Chase. "See the Bacteriological Defense Act, volume
three titled Alien Insects, subsection fourteen under heading of Known Or Suspected Disease Carriers. I quote—"
"You needn't bother," said Stanisland hastily. "I've got to have it in writing anyway."
"All right. Give me those reference numbers again and I'll send you a documentary ban."
"I don't see how the testing department is going to cope in these circumstances."
"That's their worry, not yours," advised Chase. "Be your age!"
In due time—meaning another three weeks—Chase's prohibition arrived properly stamped, signed and countersigned. It got added to the growing bunch. Stanisland was now faced with the very serious question of whether a mere test for emission was adequate and in accordance with the rules. To resolve it one way or the other meant reaching A Decision. And that could be done only by an official in A Position Of Responsibility.
Yeah, Taylor.
At the prospect of consulting Taylor a great sorrow came upon him. It would imply that he, Stanisland, couldn't summon up the nerve. But the alternative was far worse, namely, to exceed his authority. He blanched at the thought of it.
For two days Stanisland let the papers lie around while he tried to think up some other way out. There was no other way. If he dumped the wad on Taylor's desk during his absence and then went sick, Taylor would hold the lot pending his return. If he transferred the file to the next department, it would be bounced back with malicious glee plus a note pointing to the lack of an order. Obviously he had to see Taylor. He had nothing to fear but fear itself.
Finally he steeled himself, marched into Taylor's office, gave him the documents and pointed to the last two items.
"You will see, sir, that an adequate test cannot be performed because of an import restriction."
"Yes, my dear Stanisland," said Taylor, courteous in a thoroughly aggravating manner. "I suspected some difficulty myself."
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