It was going to be a bad day. As he pushed his way nervouslythrough the crowds toward the Exit Strip, Walter Towneturned the dismal prospect over and over in his mind. Thepotential gloominess of this particular day had descended uponhim the instant the morning buzzer had gone off, making iteven more tempting than usual just to roll over and forgetabout it all. Twenty minutes later, the water-douse came todrag him, drenched and gurgling, back to the cruel cold world.He had wolfed down his morning Koffee-Kup with one eyeon the clock and one eye on his growing sense of impendingcrisis. And now, to make things just a trifle worse, he wasgoing to be late again.
He struggled doggedly across the rumbling Exit strip towardthe plant entrance. After all, he told himself, why should he beso upset? He was Vice President-in-Charge-of-Production ofthe Robling Titanium Corporation. What could they do tohim, really? He had rehearsed his part many times, squaringhis thin shoulders, looking the union boss straight in the eyeand saying, "Now, see here, Torkleson—" But he knew, whenthe 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 shopsteward, would take his usual delight in bringing that up. Butthis seemed hardly worthy of concern this morning. The reportswaiting on his desk were what worried him. The salesreports. The promotion-draw reports. The royalty reports. Theanticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his head wearily.The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even infuriating,but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter.
He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves,and tried vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that keptscooting his tie up under his ear. Once off the moving strip, hestarted up the Robling corridor toward the plant gate. Perhapshe would be fortunate. Maybe the reports would be late.Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail to synapse thismorning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as hewas dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the wayto work. He walked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancingin at the groups of men, arguing politics and checking thestock market reports before they changed from their neat graybusiness suits to their welding dungarees. Running up thestairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the doorto punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could besick—
Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were hummingwith frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rowsof cubbyholes. In the middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellowcheckered tattersall, smoking a large cigar. Hisfeet were planted on his desk top, but he hadn't started on hismorning Western yet. He was busy glaring, 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 know those crowded strips—"
"So it's just four minutes now, eh?" Bailey's feet came downwith a crash. "After last month's fine production record, youthink four minutes doesn't matter, eh? Think just becauseyou're a vice president it's all right to mosey in here wheneveryou feel like it." He glowered. "Well, this is three times thismonth you've been late, Towne. Th