Stanisland said nothing.
"I am somewhat surprised that you failed to anticipate it," added Taylor pointedly.
"With all respect, sir, I have a lot of work to do and one cannot foresee everything."
"I am more impressed by efficiency than by apologies," commented Taylor in sugar-sweet tones. "And so far as I am concerned the test of efficiency is the ability to handle potentially controversial matters in such a manner that this department, when called upon to do so, can produce documentary justification for everything it has done. In other words, so long as there are no routine blunders within our own department it is not our concern what mistakes may be made in other departments. Do you understand me, my dear Stanisland?"
"Yes, sir," said Stanisland with bogus humility.
"Good!" Taylor lay back, hooked thumbs in armholes, eyed him as if he were a piebald mouse. "Now, have you brought the order in readiness for my signature?"
Stanisland went purple, swallowed hard. "No, sir."
"Why haven't you?"
"It appeared to me, sir, that it would first be necessary to obtain your ruling on whether or not a test for emission is sufficient."
"My ruling?" Taylor raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Have you taken leave of your senses? I do not make decisions for other departments, surely you know that?"
"Yes, sir, but—"
"Anyone with the moral fortitude to look a fact in the face," interrupted Taylor, tapping the papers with a long, thin forefinger, "can see that here we have a written statement from the appropriate department to the effect that this piece of apparatus can be tested. That is all we require. The question of how it is tested or for what it is tested does not concern us in the least. We have enough responsibilities of our own without accepting those properly belonging to other departments."
"Yes, sir," agreed Stanisland, not inclined to argue the matter.
"Already there has been far too much delay in dealing with this requisition," Taylor went on. "The demand is now almost a year old. Disgraceful!"
"I assure you, sir, that it is not my—"
"Cut out the excuses and let me see some action."
"You wish me to write out the order at once, sir?"
"No, you need not bother. Go get your order book, give it to my secretary and tell her that I wish to deal with it personally."
"Very well, sir." Stanisland departed sweating a mixture of ire and relief.
Finding the order book, he took it to the secretary. She was a frozen-faced female who never lost an opportunity to admire his ignorance. She was named Hazel, after a nut.
On the face of it something had now been accomplished. A gadget had been demanded, the demand had been checked, counterchecked and approved, estimates had been obtained and the order placed. It remained for Forman Atomics to supply the irradiator, the Testing Department to test it, the Shipping (Outward) Department to authorize dispatch to Alipan and the Loading (Space Allocation) Department to put it aboard the right ship. True, a dozen more departments had yet to handle the growing mass of papers which by now had attained the dignity of a box-file. Between them they'd fiddle around for another two years before the wad was reluctantly consigned to the morgue of the Records (Filing) Department. But all these were strictly post-shipment departments; the days, weeks and months they spent playing with documents did not matter once the consignment was on its way. Any irate hustle-up note from the top brass in Alipan could now be answered, curtly and effectively, with the bald statement that Action Had Been Taken.
Stanisland therefore composed his soul in bilious peace, satisfied that he had hurdled an awkward obstacle to the accompaniment of no more than a few raspberries from Taylor. He gained some compensation for the latter by reminding everyone in the office that he was peculiarly qualified to advise on rare apparatus without first getting himself lost in the library. Having instilled that fact in their minds he carried on with routine work and began gradually to forget the subject. But he was not left in peace for long.
In more than due time—meaning at least twice three weeks—his telephone shrilled and a voice said, "This is Keith of Inspection Department."
"Yes?" responded Stanisland warily. He had never heard of Keith, much less met him.
"There's a difficulty here," continued Keith, smacking his lips. "I have been on to Loading about it and they've referred me to Shipping who've referred me to Testing who've referred me to Purchasing. I see by the papers that the order was placed by Taylor but that you did the processing."
"What's wrong?" asked Stanisland, immediately recognizing the swift passing of an unwanted buck.
"The manifest of the Starfire includes a thing called a cobalt-60 irradiator for delivery to Alipan. It has been supplied by Forman Atomics against your department's order number BZ12-10127."
"What of it?"
"Testing Department has issued a guarantee that emission is satisfactory," Keith continued. "You know what that means."
Stanisland hadn't the remotest notion of what it meant but was not prepared to say so. He evaded the point by inquiring, "Well, what has it to do with this department?"
"It has got plenty to do with some department," Keith retorted. "They can't all disclaim responsibility."
Still feeling around in the dark, Stanisland said carefully, "I may have to take this to Taylor or even to Abelson. They will insist on me repeating your complaint in exact terms. Is there any reason why you can't send it round in writing?"
"Yes," said Keith. "There isn't time. The ship takes off this evening."
"All right. Exactly what do you want me to tell Taylor?"
Keith fell into the trap and informed, "This cobalt-60 contraption cannot have satisfactory emission without being radioactive. Therefore it comes under the heading of Noxious Cargo. It cannot be shipped by the Starfire unless we are supplied with a certificate to the effect that it is properly screened and will not contaminate adjacent cargo."
"Oh!" said Stanisland, feeling yet again that the only thing between him and the top of the ladder was the ladder.
"Such a certificate should have been supplied in the first place," added Keith, drowning his last spark of decency. "Somebody slipped up. I'm holding a wad three inches thick and everything's here but that."
Annoyed by this, Stanisland bawled, "I fail to see why the production of a non-contaminatory certificate should be considered the responsibility of this department."
"Testing Department say they offered to check for emission only and that you accepted this," Keith gave back. "The documents show that their statement is correct. I have them here before my very eyes."
"That is sheer evasion," maintained Stanisland. "It is your job to make them take back the apparatus and check it for screening."
"On the contrary," shot back Keith, "it is not, never has been and never will be my job to make good the shortcomings of other departments. The Starfire takes off at ten tonight. No certificate, no shipment. Sort it out for yourself." He cut off, effectively preventing further argument.
Stanisland brooded over the injustice of it before he went to see Taylor again, this time looking like hard luck on two feet. Taylor responded by meditating aloud about people who could not paint a floor without marooning themselves in one corner. Then he grabbed the phone and spent ten minutes swapping recriminations with Jurgensen of Testing Department. Jurgensen, a confirmed bachelor, flatly refused to hold the baby.
Giving the waiting Stanisland an evil stare, Taylor now tried to foist the problem onto the Scientific Division. All he got for his pains was a piece of Williams' mind, the piece with the hole in. Muttering to himself, he phoned Keith who promptly gave him the merry ha-ha and repeated in sinister tones his remark about no certificate, no shipment.
Finally Taylor thrust the phone aside and said, "Well, my dear Stanisland, you have made a nice mess of this."
"Me?" said Stanisland, paralyzed by the perfidy of it.
"Yes, you."
This was too much. Stanisland burst
out, "But you approved the order and tended to it yourself."
"I did so on the assumption that all routine aspects of the matter had been seen to with the efficiency that I expect from my subordinates. Evidently my faith was misplaced."
"That is hardly fair judgment, sir, because—"
"Shut up!" Taylor ostentatiously consulted his watch. "We have seven hours before the Starfire leaves. Neither the Testing Department nor the Scientific Division will issue the document Keith requires. We have no authority to provide one ourselves. But one must be got from somewhere. You realize that, don't you, Stanisland?"
"Yes, sir."
"Since you are directly responsible for this grave omission it is equally your responsibility to make it good. Now go away and exercise your imagination, if you have any. Come back to me when you have incubated a useful idea."
"I cannot forge a certificate, sir," Stanisland protested.
"It has not been suggested that you should," Taylor pointed out acidly. "The solution, if there is one, must be in accordance with regulations and not open to question by higher authority. It is for you to find it. And don't be too long about it."
Returning to his desk, Stanisland flopped into his chair and chased his brains around his skull. The only result was a boost to his desperation. He gnawed his fingers, thought furiously and always arrived at the same result; nobody, but nobody would produce anything in writing to cover up a blunder in another department.
After some time he went for a walk to the phone booths where he could talk in private, called the scientific division and asked for Williams.
"Williams," he said oilily, "I was there when Taylor baited you an hour ago. I didn't like his attitude."
"Neither did I," said Williams.
"You have been of great help to us on many occasions," praised Stanisland with an effort. "I'd like you to know that I genuinely appreciate it even if Taylor doesn't."
"It's most kind of you to say so," informed Williams, letting go a menacing chuckle. "But you still won't cajole from this department a document we are not authorized to give."
"I am not trying to do so," Stanisland assured. "I wouldn't dream of it."
"Taylor tried. He must think we're a bunch of suckers."
"I know," said Stanisland, gratefully seizing the opportunity thus presented. "To be frank, I wondered whether you'd be willing to help me give Taylor a smack in the eye."
"How?"
"By coming up with some suggestion about how I can get over this noxious cargo business."
"And why should that have the effect of twisting Taylor's arm?"
"He thinks he's got me where he wants me. I'd like to show him he hasn't. Some of these seniors need teaching a thing or two." He paused, added craftily, "Abelson for instance."
The effect of that name in the other's ears clinched the deal and Williams said without a moment's hesitation, "All right, I'll tell you something."
"What is it?" asked Stanisland eagerly.
"No reputable outfit such as Forman's would ship a radioactive apparatus inadequately screened. Probably seventy per cent of that irradiator's weight is attributable to screening. Ask Forman's and they'll tell you—in writing."
"Williams," said Stanisland delightedly. "I'll never forget this."
"You will," contradicted Williams. "But I won't."
Stanisland now phoned Forman's and explained the position in complete detail. Their response was prompt: they would prepare a written guarantee of safety and deliver it by special messenger to Keith within two hours. Stanisland sighed with heartfelt relief. Seemed there were times when the efficiency of private industry almost approached that of bureaucracy.
Over the next few days Stanisland waited with secret pleasure for a call from Taylor. It never came. Unknown to him, Taylor had phoned Keith to find out what had happened, if anything. Taylor then realized that an interview with Stanisland would permit that worthy a moment of petty triumph. It was unthinkable that a senior should permit a subordinate to gloat. He would summon Stanisland into his presence when and only when he had some pretext for throwing him to the crocodiles. So Stanisland went on waiting, first with growing disappointment, then with dull resignation, finally with forgetfulness.
The weeks rolled on while the wad of papers crawled through various offices and gained in mass at each desk. Then one day it reached the Documents (Final Checking) Department. It now weighed five pounds and was solid with words, figures, stamps, names and signatures.
From this mountain of evidence some assiduous toiler dug out the strange word Nemo. His nose started twitching. He made a few discreet inquiries and satisfied himself that (a) someone had blundered and (b) the cretin was not located within his own office. Then he steered the wad toward the Spatial Statistics Department.
Far away on Alipan a copy of the Starfire's manifest landed on Hancock's desk. He scanned it carefully. Most of the stuff had been demanded three to four years ago. But he had a very good memory and the moment his eyes found an irradiator the alarm-bells rang in his brain. He was swift to give the list to Purcell.
"You'd better deal with this."
"Me? Why? You got writer's cramp or something?"
"The ship is bringing an expensive present for a planet that doesn't exist. I don't handle consignments for imaginary worlds."
"Windy, eh?" said Purcell.
"Sane," said Hancock.
Examining the manifest, Purcell grumbled, "It's taken them long enough. Nobody broke his neck to get it here. If scout-pilots moved at the same pace, Lewis and Clark would still be pounding their dogs along the Oregon Trail."
"I am," announced Hancock, "sick and tired of the subject of scout-pilots."
"And where would you have been without them?"
"On Terra."
"Doing what?"
"Earning an honest living," said Hancock.
"Yeah—filling forms," said Purcell.
Hancock let it slide and pretended to be busy.
"Now this is where our right to determine priorities reaches its peak of usefulness," Purcell went on, flourishing the manifest as if it were the flag of freedom. "We issue an overriding priority in favor of our bugologist, his need being greater than Nemo's. The fly-killer will then be transferred to him without argument because nobody questions a proper form, properly filled, properly stamped and properly signed. Thus we shall have served humanity faithfully and well."
"You can cut out every 'we' and 'our'," ordered Hancock. "I am having nothing to do with it." He put on another brief imitation of overwork, added as an afterthought, "I told you before, you can't buck the system."
"I have bucked it."
"Not yet," said Hancock positively.
Taking no notice, Purcell made out the priority, stamped it, signed it, studied it right way up and upside-down, signed it again.
"I've forged your signature. Do you mind?"
"Yes," yelled Hancock.
"I am receiving you loud and clear." Purcell examined the forgery with unashamed satisfaction. "Too bad. It's done now. What's done can't be undone."
"I'd like you to know, Purcell, that in the event of that document being challenged I shall not hesitate to declare my signature false."
"Quite a good idea," enthused Purcell. "I'll swear mine is false also."
"You wouldn't dare," said Hancock, appalled.
"It'll take 'em at least ten years to figure who's the liar and even then they couldn't bet on it," continued Purcell with indecent gusto. "In the meantime I'll suggest that maybe every document of Alipan's and half of Terra's have phony signatures attributable to subordinates bypassing their seniors in order to avoid criticisms and conceal mistakes. The resulting chaos ought to create work for ten thousand checkers."
"You're off your head," declared Hancock.
"Well, you can keep me company," Purcell suggested.
He exhibited the manifest at distance too far for the other to read. "I've got news for you."
"What is it?"
"No gin."
Hancock sat breathing heavily for quite a time, then said, "You're to blame for that."
"Nuts! I've no say in what Terra loads on or leaves off."
"But—"
"If you've told me once," Purcell went on remorselessly, "you've told me a hundred times that in no circumstances whatever will any department on Alipan accept responsibility for decisions made on Terra. Correct?"
"Correct," agreed Hancock as though surrendering a back tooth.
"All right. You ordered the gin and can prove it. You gave it high priority and can prove it. You're armor-plated front and back. All you need do is go see Letheren and say, 'Sorry, no gin.' When he zooms and rotates you say, Terra!' and spit. It's so easy a talking poodle could do it."
"I can hardly wait to watch you get rid of Nemo the same way," said Hancock, making it sound sadistic.
"Nobody has said a word about Nemo. Nobody is the least big curious about Nemo. Finally I, James Walter Armitage Purcell, could not care less about Nemo."
"You will," Hancock promised.
In due time—which on Alipan attained the magnitude of about three months—the intercom speaker squawked on the wall and a voice harshed, "Mr. Purcell of Requisitioning (Priorities) Department will present himself at Mr. Vogel's office at eleven hours."
Hancock glanced at his desk clock, smirked and said, "You've got exactly thirty-seven minutes."
"For what?"
"To prepare for death."
"Huh?"
"Vogel is a high-ranker with ninety-two subordinates. He controls four departments comprising the Terran Coordination Wing."
"What of it?"
"He makes a hobby of personally handling all gripes from Terra. Anyone summoned by Vogel is a gone goose unless he happens to be holding the actual documentary proof of his innocence in his hot little hands."
"Sounds quite a nice guy," Purcell commented, unperturbed.
"Vogel," informed Hancock, "is a former advertising man who got flatfooted toting his billboard around the block. But he's a natural for routine rigmarole. He's climbed high on the shoulders of a growing army of underlings and he's still climbing." He paused, added emphatically, "I don't like him."
Another Part of the Galaxy Page 22