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diff --git a/22867.txt b/22867.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d4d9e3 --- /dev/null +++ b/22867.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1112 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Meeting of the Board, by Alan Edward Nourse + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Meeting of the Board + +Author: Alan Edward Nourse + +Release Date: October 3, 2007 [EBook #22867] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEETING OF THE BOARD *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from _The Counterfeit Man More Science + Fiction Stories by Alan E. Nourse_ published in 1963. Extensive + research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on + this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical + errors have been corrected without note. + + + + + Meeting + of the + Board + + + + +It was going to be a bad day. As he pushed his way nervously through the +crowds toward the Exit Strip, Walter Towne turned the dismal prospect +over and over in his mind. The potential gloominess of this particular +day had descended upon him the instant the morning buzzer had gone off, +making it even more tempting than usual just to roll over and forget +about it all. Twenty minutes later, the water-douse came to drag him, +drenched and gurgling, back to the cruel cold world. He had wolfed down +his morning Koffee-Kup with one eye on the clock and one eye on his +growing sense of impending crisis. And now, to make things just a trifle +worse, he was going to be late again. + +He struggled doggedly across the rumbling Exit strip toward the plant +entrance. After all, he told himself, why should he be so upset? He +_was_ Vice President-in-Charge-of-Production of the Robling Titanium +Corporation. What could they do to him, really? He had rehearsed _his_ +part many times, squaring his thin shoulders, looking the union boss +straight in the eye and saying, "Now, see here, Torkleson--" But he +knew, when the showdown came, that he wouldn't say any such thing. And +this was the morning that the showdown would come. + +Oh, not because of the _lateness_. Of course Bailey, the shop steward, +would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But this seemed hardly +worthy of concern this morning. The reports waiting on his desk were +what worried him. The sales reports. The promotion-draw reports. The +royalty reports. The anticipated 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 kept scooting his tie up +under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he started up the Robling +corridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps he would be fortunate. Maybe the +reports would be late. Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail to +synapse this morning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as he +was dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way to work. He +walked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancing in at the groups of +men, arguing politics and checking the stock market reports before they +changed from their neat gray business suits to their welding dungarees. +Running up the stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the +door to punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could be sick-- + +Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming with +frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows of cubbyholes. In the +middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellow checkered +tattersall, smoking a large cigar. His feet were planted on his desk +top, but he hadn't started on his morning 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 down with a +crash. "After last month's fine production record, you think four +minutes doesn't matter, eh? Think just because you're a vice president +it's all right to mosey in here whenever you feel like it." He glowered. +"Well, this is three times this month you've been late, Towne. That's a +demerit for each time, and you know what that means." + +"You wouldn't count four minutes as a whole demerit!" + +Bailey grinned. "Wouldn't I, now! You just add up your pay envelope on +Friday. Ten cents an hour off for each demerit." + +Walter sighed and shuffled back to his desk. Oh, well. It could have +been worse. They might have fired him like poor Cartwright last month. +He'd just _have_ to listen to that morning buzzer. + +The reports were on his desk. He picked them up warily. Maybe they +wouldn't be so bad. He'd had more freedom this last month than before, +maybe there'd been a policy change. Maybe Torkleson was gaining +confidence in him. Maybe-- + +The reports were worse than he had ever dreamed. + +"_Towne!_" + +Walter jumped a foot. Bailey was putting down the visiphone receiver. +His grin spread unpleasantly from ear to ear. "What have you been doing +lately? Sabotaging the production line?" + +"What's the trouble now?" + +Bailey jerked a thumb significantly at the ceiling. "The boss wants to +see you. And you'd better have the right answers, too. The boss seems to +have a lot of questions." + +Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson had +already seen the reports. He started for the door, his knees shaking. + +It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably. Time was when +things had been very different. It had _meant_ something to be vice +president of a huge industrial firm like Robling Titanium. A man could +have had a fine house of his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to the +Country Club; maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere. + +Walter could almost remember those days with Robling, before the +switchover, before that black day when the exchange of ten little shares +of stock had thrown the Robling Titanium Corporation into the hands of +strange and unnatural owners. + + * * * * * + +The door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged in gold: + + TITANIUM WORKERS + OF AMERICA + Amalgamated Locals + Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary + +The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter with pity. +"Mr. Torkleson will see you." + +Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome office. For an +instant he felt a pang of nostalgia--the floor-to-ceiling windows +looking out across the long buildings of the Robling plant, the pine +paneling, the broad expanse of desk-- + +"Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over here." The +man behind the desk hoisted his three hundred well-dressed pounds and +glared at Walter from under flagrant eyebrows. Torkleson's whole body +quivered as he slammed a sheaf of papers down on the desk. "Just what do +you think you're doing with this company, Towne?" + +Walter swallowed. "I'm production manager of the corporation." + +"And just what does the production manager _do_ all day?" + +Walter reddened. "He organizes the work of the plant, establishes +production lines, works with Promotion and Sales, integrates Research +and Development, operates the planning machines." + +"And you think you do a pretty good job of it, eh? Even asked for a +raise last year!" Torkleson's voice was dangerous. + +Walter spread his hands. "I do my best. I've been doing it for thirty +years. I should know what I'm doing." + +"_Then how do you explain these reports?_" Torkleson threw the heap of +papers into Walter's arms, and paced up and down behind the desk. +"_Look_ at them! Sales at rock bottom. Receipts impossible. Big orders +canceled. The worst reports in seven years, and you say you know your +job!" + +"I've been doing everything I could," Walter snapped. "Of course the +reports are bad, they couldn't help but be. We haven't met a production +schedule in over two years. No plant can keep up production the way the +men are working." + +Torkleson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. "So it's the _men_ +now, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with the men." + +"Nothing's wrong with the men--if they'd only work. But they come in +when they please, and leave when they please, and spend half their time +changing and the other half on Koffee-Kup. No company could survive +this. But that's only half of it--" Walter searched through the reports +frantically. "This International Jet Transport account--they dropped us +because we haven't had a new engine in six years. Why? Because Research +and Development hasn't had any money for six years. What can two starved +engineers and a second rate chemist drag out of an attic laboratory for +competition in the titanium market?" Walter took a deep breath. "I've +warned you time and again. Robling had built up accounts over the years +with fine products and new models. But since the switchover seven years +ago, you and your board have forced me to play the cheap products for +the quick profit in order to give your men their dividends. Now the +bottom's dropped out. We couldn't turn a quick profit on the big, +important accounts, so we had to cancel them. If you had let me manage +the company the way it should have been run--" + +Torkleson had been slowly turning purple. Now he slammed his fist down +on the desk. "We should just turn the company back to Management again, +eh? Just let you have a free hand to rob us blind again. Well, it won't +work, Towne. Not while I'm secretary of this union. We fought long and +hard for control of this corporation, just the way all the other unions +did. I know. I was through it all." He sat back smugly, his cheeks +quivering with emotion. "You might say that I was a national leader in +the movement. But I did it only for the men. The men want their +dividends. They own the stock, stock is supposed to pay dividends." + +"But they're cutting their own throats," Walter wailed. "You can't build +a company and make it grow the way I've been forced to run it." + +"Details!" Torkleson snorted. "I don't care _how_ the dividends come in. +That's your job. My job is to report a dividend every six months to the +men who own the stock, the men working on the production lines." + +Walter nodded bitterly. "And every year the dividend has to be higher +than the last, or you and your fat friends are likely to be thrown out +of your jobs--right? No more steaks every night. No more private +gold-plated Buicks for you boys. No more twenty-room mansions in +Westchester. No more big game hunting in the Rockies. No, you don't have +to know anything but how to whip a board meeting into a frenzy so +they'll vote you into office again each year." + +Torkleson's eyes glittered. His voice was very soft. "I've always liked +you, Walter. So I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you." He paused, then +continued. "But here on my desk is a small bit of white paper. Unless +you have my signature on that paper on the first of next month, you are +out of a job, on grounds of incompetence. And I will personally see that +you go on every White list in the country." + +Walter felt the fight go out of him like a dying wind. He knew what the +White list meant. No job, anywhere, ever, in management. No chance, +ever, to join a union. No more house, no more weekly pay envelope. He +spread his hands weakly. "What do you want?" he asked. + +"I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four hours. A plan +that will guarantee me a five per cent increase in dividends in the next +six months. And you'd better move fast, because I'm not fooling." + + * * * * * + +Back in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly at the +reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or later. They all +knew it--Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton of Sales, the whole +managerial staff. + +It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had fought it tooth and +nail since the day Torkleson had installed the moose heads in Walter's +old office, and moved him down to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchful +eye. He had argued, and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watched +the company deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and threatened +his job, and he was helpless to do anything about it. + +He stared at the machines, clicking busily against the wall. An idea +began to form in his head. Helpless? + +Not quite. Not if the others could see it, go along with it. It was a +repugnant idea. But there was one thing they could do that even +Torkleson and his fat-jowled crew would understand. + +They could go on strike. + + * * * * * + +"It's ridiculous," the lawyer spluttered, staring at the circle of men +in the room. "How can I give you an opinion on the legality of the +thing? There isn't any legal precedent that I know of." He mopped his +bald head with a large white handkerchief. "There just hasn't _been_ a +case of a company's management striking against its own labor. It--it +isn't done. Oh, there have been lockouts, but this isn't the same thing +at all." + +Walter nodded. "Well, we couldn't very well lock the men out, they own +the plant. We were thinking more of a lock-_in_ sort of thing." He +turned to Paul Hendricks and the others. "We know how the machines +operate. They don't. We also know that the data we keep in the machines +is essential to running the business; the machines figure production +quotas, organize blueprints, prepare distribution lists, test promotion +schemes. It would take an office full of managerial experts to handle +even a single phase of the work without the machines." + +The man at the window hissed, and Pendleton quickly snapped out the +lights. They sat in darkness, hardly daring to breathe. Then: "Okay. +Just the man next door coming home." + +Pendleton sighed. "You're sure you didn't let them suspect anything, +Walter? They wouldn't be watching the house?" + +"I don't think so. And you all came alone, at different times." He +nodded to the window guard, and turned back to the lawyer. "So we can't +be sure of the legal end. You'd have to be on your toes." + +"I still don't see how we could work it," Hendricks objected. His heavy +face was wrinkled with worry. "Torkleson is no fool, and he has a lot of +power in the National Association of Union Stockholders. All he'd need +to do is ask for managers, and a dozen companies would throw them to him +on loan. They'd be able to figure out the machine system and take over +without losing a day." + +"Not quite." Walter was grinning. "That's why I spoke of a lock-in. +Before we leave, we throw the machines into feedback, every one of them. +Lock them into reverberating circuits with a code sequence key. Then all +they'll do is buzz and sputter until the feedback is broken with the +key. And the key is our secret. It'll tie the Robling office into granny +knots, and scabs won't be able to get any more data out of the machines +than Torkleson could. With a lawyer to handle injunctions, we've got +them strapped." + +"For what?" asked the lawyer. + +Walter turned on him sharply. "For new contracts. Contracts to let us +manage the company the way it should be managed. If they won't do it, +they won't get another Titanium product off their production lines for +the rest of the year, and their dividends will _really_ take a +nosedive." + +"That means you'll have to beat Torkleson," said Bates. "He'll never go +along." + +"Then he'll be left behind." + +Hendricks stood up, brushing off his dungarees. "I'm with you, Walter. +I've taken all of Torkleson that I want to. And I'm sick of the junk +we've been trying to sell people." + +The others nodded. Walter rubbed his hands together. "All right. +Tomorrow we work as usual, until the noon whistle. When we go off for +lunch, we throw the machines into lock-step. Then we just don't come +back. But the big thing is to keep it quiet until the noon whistle." He +turned to the lawyer. "Are you with us, Jeff?" + +Jeff Bates shook his head sadly. "I'm with you. I don't know why, you +haven't got a leg to stand on. But if you want to commit suicide, that's +all right with me." He picked up his briefcase, and started for the +door. "I'll have your contract demands by tomorrow," he grinned. "See +you at the lynching." + +They got down to the details of planning. + + * * * * * + +The news hit the afternoon telecasts the following day. Headlines +screamed: + + MANAGEMENT SABOTAGES ROBLING MACHINES + OFFICE STRIKERS THREATEN LABOR ECONOMY + ROBLING LOCK-IN CREATES PANDEMONIUM + +There was a long, indignant statement from Daniel P. Torkleson, +condemning Towne and his followers for "flagrant violation of management +contracts and illegal fouling of managerial processes." Ben Starkey, +President of the Board of American Steel, expressed "shock and regret"; +the Amalgamated Buttonhole Makers held a mass meeting in protest, +demanding that "the instigators of this unprecedented crime be +permanently barred from positions in American Industry." + +In Washington, the nation's economists were more cautious in their +views. Yes, it _was_ an unprecedented action. Yes, there would +undoubtedly be repercussions--many industries were having managerial +troubles; but as for long term effects, it was difficult to say just at +present. + +On the Robling production lines the workmen blinked at each other, and +at their machines, and wondered vaguely what it was all about. + +Yet in all the upheaval, there was very little expression of surprise. +Step by step, through the years, economists had been watching with wary +eyes the growing movement toward union, control of industry. Even as far +back as the '40's and '50's unions, finding themselves oppressed with +the administration of growing sums of money--pension funds, welfare +funds, medical insurance funds, accruing union dues--had begun investing +in corporate stock. It was no news to them that money could make money. +And what stock more logical to buy than stock in their own companies? + +At first it had been a quiet movement. One by one the smaller firms had +tottered, bled drier and drier by increasing production costs, +increasing labor demands, and an ever-dwindling margin of profit. One by +one they had seen their stocks tottering as they faced bankruptcy, only +to be gobbled up by the one ready buyer with plenty of funds to buy +with. At first, changes had been small and insignificant: boards of +directors shifted; the men were paid higher wages and worked shorter +hours; there were tighter management policies; and a little less money +was spent on extras like Research and Development. + +At first--until that fateful night when Daniel P. Torkleson of TWA and +Jake Squill of Amalgamated Buttonhole Makers spent a long evening with +beer and cigars in a hotel room, and floated the loan that threw steel +to the unions. Oil had followed with hardly a fight, and as the unions +began to feel their oats, the changes grew more radical. + +Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The gradual undercutting +of the managerial salaries, the tightening up of inter-union collusion +to establish the infamous White list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shift +from hourly wage to annual salary for the factory workers, and the +change to the other pole for the managerial staff. And then, with +creeping malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more and +higher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward the inevitable +crisis. + +Until Shop Steward Bailey suddenly found himself in charge of a dozen +sputtering machines and an empty office. + + * * * * * + +Torkleson was waiting to see the shop steward when he came in next +morning. The union boss's office was crowded with TV cameras, newsmen, +and puzzled workmen. The floor was littered with piles of +ominous-looking paper. Torkleson was shouting into a telephone, and +three lawyers were shouting into Torkleson's ear. He spotted Bailey and +waved him through the crowd into an inner office room. "Well? Did they +get them fixed?" + +Bailey spread his hands nervously. "The electronics boys have been at it +since yesterday afternoon. Practically had the machines apart on the +floor." + +"I know that, stupid," Torkleson roared. "I ordered them there. Did they +get the machines _fixed_?" + +"Uh--well, no, as a matter of fact--" + +"Well, _what's holding them up_?" + +Bailey's face was a study in misery. "The machines just go in circles. +The circuits are locked. They just reverberate." + +"Then call American Electronics. Have them send down an expert crew." + +Bailey shook his head. "They won't come." + +"They _what_?" + +"They said thanks, but no thanks. They don't want their fingers in this +pie at all." + +"Wait until I get O'Gilvy on the phone." + +"It won't do any good, sir. They've got their own management troubles. +They're scared silly of a sympathy strike." + +The door burst open, and a lawyer stuck his head in. "What about those +injunctions, Dan?" + +"Get them moving," Torkleson howled. "They'll start those machines +again, or I'll have them in jail so fast--" He turned back to Bailey. +"What about the production lines?" + +The shop steward's face lighted. "They slipped up, there. There was one +program that hadn't been coded into the machines yet. Just a minor item, +but it's a starter. We found it in Towne's desk, blueprints all ready, +promotion all planned." + +"Good, good," Torkleson breathed. "I have a directors' meeting right +now, have to get the workers quieted down a bit. You put the program +through, and give those electronics men three more hours to unsnarl this +knot, or we throw them out of the union." He started for the door. "What +were the blueprints for?" + +"Trash cans," said Bailey. "Pure titanium-steel trash cans." + +It took Robling Titanium approximately two days to convert its entire +production line to titanium-steel trash cans. With the total resources +of the giant plant behind the effort, production was phenomenal. In two +more days the available markets were glutted. Within two weeks, at a +conservative estimate, there would be a titanium-steel trash can for +every man, woman, child, and hound dog on the North American continent. +The jet engines, structural steels, tubing, and other pre-strike +products piled up in the freight yards, their routing slips and order +requisitions tied up in the reverberating machines. + +But the machines continued to buzz and sputter. + +The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and Hendricks and +all the others had been picketing the plant, until angry crowds of +workers had driven them off with shotguns. Then they came back in an +old, weatherbeaten 'copter which hovered over the plant entrance +carrying a banner with a plaintive message: ROBLING TITANIUM UNFAIR TO +MANAGEMENT. Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copter +remained. + +The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering Towne +to return to work. It was duly appealed, legal machinery began tying +itself in knots, and the strikers still struck. By the fifth day there +was a more serious note. + +"You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge this one." + +"When?" + +"Tomorrow morning. And before a labor-rigged judge, too." The little +lawyer paced his office nervously. "I don't like it. Torkleson's getting +desperate. The workers are putting pressure on him." + +Walter grinned. "Then Pendleton is doing a good job of selling." + +"But you haven't got _time_," the lawyer wailed. "They'll have you in +jail if you don't start the machines again. They may have you in jail if +you _do_ start them, too, but that's another bridge. Right now they want +those machines going again." + +"We'll see," said Walter. "What time tomorrow?" + +"Ten o'clock." Bates looked up. "And don't try to skip. You be there, +because _I_ don't know what to tell them." + +Walter was there a half hour early. Torkleson's legal staff glowered +from across the room. The judge glowered from the bench. Walter closed +his eyes with a little smile as the charges were read: "--breach of +contract, malicious mischief, sabotage of the company's machines, +conspiring to destroy the livelihood of ten thousand workers. Your +Honor, we are preparing briefs to prove further that these men have +formed a conspiracy to undermine the economy of the entire nation. We +appeal to the spirit of orderly justice--" + +Walter yawned as the words went on. + +"Of course, if the defendant will waive his appeals against the previous +injunctions, and will release the machines that were sabotaged, we will +be happy to formally withdraw these charges." + +There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His Honor turned to +Jeff Bates. "Are you counsel for the defendant?" + +"Yes, sir." Bates mopped his bald scalp. "The defendant pleads guilty to +all counts." + +The union lawyer dropped his glasses on the table with a crash. The +judge stared. "Mr. Bates, if you plead guilty, you leave me no +alternative--" + +"--but to send me to jail," said Walter Towne. "Go ahead. Send me to +jail. In fact, I _insist_ upon going to jail." + +The union lawyer's jaw sagged. There was a hurried conference. A recess +was pleaded. Telephones buzzed. Then: "Your Honor, the plaintiff desires +to withdraw all charges at this time." + +"Objection," Bates exclaimed. "We've already pleaded." + +"--feel sure that a settlement can be effected out of court--" + +The case was thrown out on its ear. + +And still the machines sputtered. + + * * * * * + +Back at the plant rumor had it that the machines were permanently +gutted, and that the plant could never go back into production. +Conflicting scuttlebutt suggested that persons high in uniondom had +perpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying Management into the strike +for the sole purpose of cutting current dividends and selling stock to +themselves cheaply. The rumors grew easier and easier to believe. The +workers came to the plants in business suits, it was true, and lounged +in the finest of lounges, and read the _Wall Street Journal_, and felt +like stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not the +highest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance fees, and +sundry other little items which had formerly been paid by well-to-do +managements, and very little was left but the semi-annual dividend +checks. And now the dividends were tottering. + +Production lines slowed. There were daily brawls on the plant floor, in +the lounge and locker rooms. Workers began joking about the trash cans; +then the humor grew more and more remote. Finally, late in the afternoon +of the eighth day, Bailey was once again in Torkleson's office. + +"Well? Speak up! What's the beef this time?" + +"Sir--the men--I mean, there's been some nasty talk. They're tired of +making trash cans. No challenge in it. Anyway, the stock room is full, +and the freight yard is full, and the last run of orders we sent out +came back because nobody wants any more trash cans." Bailey shook his +head. "The men won't swallow it any more. There's--well, there's been +talk about having a board meeting." + +Torkleson's ruddy cheeks paled. "Board meeting, huh?" He licked his +heavy lips. "Now look, Bailey, we've always worked well together. I +consider you a good friend of mine. You've got to get things under +control. Tell the men we're making progress. Tell them Management is +beginning to weaken from its original stand. Tell them we expect to have +the strike broken in another few hours. Tell them anything." + +He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling hand he lifted +the visiphone receiver. "Get me Walter Towne," he said. + + * * * * * + +"I'm not an unreasonable man," Torkleson was saying miserably, waving +his fat paws in the air as he paced back and forth in front of the +spokesmen for the striking managers. "Perhaps we were a little +demanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic with our ownership, and all +that. But I'm sure we can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale +is certainly within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better +company houses." + +Walter Towne stifled a yawn. "Perhaps you didn't understand us. The men +are agitating for a meeting of the board of directors. We want to be at +that meeting. That's the only thing we're interested in right now." + +"But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the contract your +lawyer presented." + +"I know, but you rejected that contract. So we tore it up. Anyway, we've +changed our minds." + +Torkleson sat down, his heavy cheeks quivering. "Gentlemen, be +reasonable! I can guarantee you your jobs, even give you a free hand +with the management. So the dividends won't be so large--the men will +have to get used to that. That's it, we'll put it through at the next +executive conference, give you--" + +"The board meeting," Walter said gently. "That'll be enough for us." + +The union boss swore and slammed his fist on the desk. "Walk out in +front of those men after what you've done? You're fools! Well, I've +given you your chance. You'll get your board meeting. But you'd better +come armed. Because I know how to handle this kind of board meeting, and +if I have anything to say about it, this one will end with a massacre." + + * * * * * + +The meeting was held in a huge auditorium in the Robling administration +building. Since every member of the union owned stock in the company, +every member had the right to vote for members of the board of +directors. But in the early days of the switchover, the idea of a board +of directors smacked too strongly of the old system of corporate +organization to suit the men. The solution had been simple, if a trifle +ungainly. Everyone who owned stock in Robling Titanium was automatically +a member of the board of directors, with Torkleson as chairman of the +board. The stockholders numbered over ten thousand. + +They were all present. They were packed in from the wall to the stage, +and hanging from the rafters. They overflowed into the corridors. They +jammed the lobby. Ten thousand men rose with a howl of anger when Walter +Towne walked out on the stage. But they quieted down again as Dan +Torkleson started to speak. + +It was a masterful display of rabble-rousing. Torkleson paced the stage, +his fat body shaking with agitation, pointing a chubby finger again and +again at Walter Towne. He pranced and he ranted. He paused at just the +right times for thunderous peals of applause. + +"This morning in my office we offered to compromise with these jackals," +he cried, "and they rejected compromise. Even at the cost of lowering +dividends, of taking food from the mouths of your wives and children, we +made our generous offers. They were rejected with scorn. These thieves +have one desire in mind, my friends, to starve you all, and to destroy +your company and your jobs. To every appeal they heartlessly refused to +divulge the key to the lock-in. And now this man--the ringleader who +keeps the key word buried in secrecy--has the temerity to ask an +audience with you. You're angry men; you want to know the man to blame +for our hardship." + +He pointed to Towne with a flourish. "I give you your man. Do what you +want with him." + +The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men rushed onto +the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed past his ear and +splattered against the wall. More men clambered up on the stage, +shouting and shaking their fists. + +Then somebody appeared with a rope. + +Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly the roar of +the men was drowned in another sound--a soul-rending, teeth-grating, +bone-rattling screech. The men froze, jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardly +believing their ears. In the instant of silence as the factory whistle +died away, Walter grabbed the microphone. "You want the code word to +start the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!" + +The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson burst to +his feet. "It's a trick!" he howled. "Wait 'til you hear their price." + +"We have no price, and no demands," said Walter Towne. "We will _give_ +you the code word, and we ask nothing in return but that you listen for +sixty seconds." He glanced back at Torkleson, and then out to the crowd. +"You men here are an electing body--right? You own this great plant and +company, top to bottom--right? _You should all be rich_, because Robling +could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich. Only the fat +ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how _you_ can be rich." + +They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly, Walter +Towne was talking their language. + +"You think that since you own the company, times have changed. Well, +have they? Are you any better off than you were? Of course not. Because +you haven't learned yet that oppression by either side leads to misery +for both. You haven't learned moderation. And you never will, until you +throw out the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last +ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer and richer +since the switchover. Throw him out, and you too can be rich." He paused +for a deep breath. "You want the code word to unlock the machines? All +right, I'll give it to you." + +He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man sitting there. +"The code word is TORKLESON!" + + * * * * * + +Much later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies off the wall +of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly. "Pity about Dan +Torkleson. Gruesome affair." + +Walter nodded as he struggled down with a moose head. "Yes, a pity, but +you know the boys when they get upset." + +"I suppose so." The lawyer stopped to rest, panting. "Anyway, with the +newly elected board of directors, things will be different for +everybody. You took a long gamble." + +"Not so long. Not when you knew what they wanted to hear. It just took a +little timing." + +"Still, I didn't think they'd elect you secretary of the union. It just +doesn't figure." + +Walter Towne chuckled. "Doesn't it? I don't know. Everything's been a +little screwy since the switchover. And in a screwy world like this--" +He shrugged, and tossed down the moose head. "_Anything_ figures." + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Meeting of the Board, by Alan Edward Nourse + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEETING OF THE BOARD *** + +***** This file should be named 22867.txt or 22867.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/8/6/22867/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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