“Bertha’s sick, over in Quality. We can put that trainee on your job; you go fill in for Bertha, okay?”
Alice stared, appalled. “But I don’t know anything about quality control!”
The fore shrugged. “What’s to know? You look at the gadget as it comes along, look at the diagnostics, and let it go by. ‘”
“But how’ll I know if there’s anything wrong with it?”
“Wrong?” The fore’s tone somehow managed to convey both the extreme improbability of the event, coupled with the imbecility of Alice. “The diagnostics will tell you, of course! Now, get going.”
Alice tried for a little bit more information when she arrived at her station, but the other checkpointers only shrugged and said pretty much the same.
“Nothing to tell,” Alberta assured her. “If there’s anything wrong, the screen will light up with red danger calls.”
“But how about if it’s something the machines can’t see?”
Alberta gave her a look that implied there was something wrong with her. “Well, if you see anything wrong that the machines don’t catch, tell me, will ya? It’ll be a first.”
Alice’s face flamed, and she felt as though she were dwindling right there and then, but she plucked up her courage and asked, “Don’t the screens tell you anything else?”
Alberta shrugged. “Well, they’ll light up in yellow if there’s something questionable, and they’ll light up in blue for something that’s wrong but doesn’t matter. So what it comes down to is, you only scrap the item if the screen shows red.”
Alice stared, not believing her ears.
Alberta finally noticed. “Well, it’s not as though we had much choice, lamebrain. After all, each of us has to pass four hundred items each day—and there’s one coming down the line every thirty seconds! How long do you think you’ll keep your job if you stop the line every time there’s a yellow flash?”
“I don’t know,” Alice answered. “I really don’t know.”
But she found out very quickly. The yellow letters flashed for every fifth gadget, it seemed, usually in the words “CASTING FLAW,” and the blue showed once an hour. If she had pulled each one, she could never have sent four hundred to packing. Three hundred, maybe, but not four. She almost pulled the first one off the conveyor, but at the last moment, she remembered Pepe telling her to just find out as much as she could for him, so she glanced at the other checkers, to take her cue from them.
Two others had yellow words on their screens, but they stood by, arms folded, looking bored, and reached out at the last second to punch the button that routed the item off to packing. Alice swallowed heavily, and punched her button, too.
Fifteen minutes later, every checker’s screen had flashed yellow at least once, and not a single item had been pulled off the line. Alberta had been right—they didn’t stop for anything but red.
So Alice held back, and let the item go by.
Papa didn’t like talking to strange admirals.
He sat down at the little table, trying to hide his wariness.
A full admiral didn’t usually meet with a colonel, even a quartermaster, in a restaurant—a small, very expensive restaurant. And certainly not with a civilian in a very expensive suit beside him, a civilian who had iron-gray hair and iron-gray eyes, and whose finger gleamed with a watch worth two months of Papa’s pay.
“Good of you to invite me, sir.”
“Not at all, not at all, Colonel! The top brass should stay in contact with their juniors, don’t you think? Outside the office as well as in.”
Not that Papa had needed any remainder that the admiral could give him orders—he’d just been making sure. “Still an honor, sir.” He turned to the civilian. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?”
The man gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Names don’t matter here.”
They certainly didn’t—not when the man’s face was as well-known as his company’s name—L. C. Lamprey, Chairman of the Board of Industrial Munitions.
“Let’s just say I represent the private sector, Colonel.”
The alarm bell in Papa’s head started clanging, and irritation surged. He decided to go on the offensive. “The people we rely on, yes. The good people in industry who make the armor that protects our boys, the weapons that keep the Hothri from gobbling them up.”
Anger flashed in the civilian’s eyes, and the admiral said, “No, we can’t do without them, Colonel. We’d go naked into battle, if it weren’t for the manufacturers.”
“True, sir.” Inspiration nudged him, and Papa decided to stab. “Of course, it would be much more efficient if the Navy just built its own factories. Fewer middlemen, greater quality control.”
The admiral stared, appalled, and, the civilian’s gaze turned to a glare. “Don’t try to threaten me, Colonel!”
“Me, sir? I don’t have anything to do with policy.”
“Of course not,” the admiral said quickly, but the civilian’s gaze was still carving and slicing. “And the notion is ridiculous. Why, the expense to the Navy would be intolerable.”
“Not really, sir.” Papa began to realize that the idea might be worth exploring. “We’re already paying the same amount to private enterprise—and without their profit margin, we’d actually save money. An amazing amount, in fact.”
“That will be enough!” the civilian snapped.
Papa rounded on him. “I think that’s for the Admiral to say, don’t you, mister? If you want to give orders, find a clerk!”
“That will do, Colonel!” the admiral snapped. “You will treat this man with all due courtesy!”
“That’s what I was doing . . . sir.”
The civilian only narrowed his eyes, but the admiral turned red. “That will be enough impertinence, Colonel! Or I’ll break you out of your job!”
Papa stared at him, then smiled, just a little. “Fine.”
The admiral stared back, then snapped, “I’ll transfer you to the front lines!”
Papa’s eyes glowed. “Thank you—sir!” He rose and saluted. “Have I the Admiral’s dismissal?”
“Don’t be an ass!” the civilian snapped. “Sit down, you fool!”
Papa spun, caught up the man’s snifter, and threw the brandy on his suit.
“Colonel!” the admiral cried, appalled.
But Papa was saying, in cold fury, “Armed Forces personnel do not take orders from any civilians, Mr. Lamprey—especially from men of acceptable physical condition who decline to serve!”
Lamprey’s eyes were as void of emotion as outer space. Slowly, he stood, eye to eye with Papa. “You will regret that insult sorely, Colonel Stuart—sorely, and at great length.”
He turned away and stalked out.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?” the Admiral said, in a shocked whisper.
Slowly, Papa turned back to his superior officer. “Oh, yes, sir. But what, may I ask, were the two of you doing?”
“I don’t think that matters, now,” the admiral said, rising slowly. “Report to the stockade, Colonel, and turn yourself in for arrest!”
“Oh, yes, sir, I will,” Papa said softly, “and, of course, I’ll have to make out a full report as to why.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. My word . . .”
“ . . . will be evidence at my court-martial,” Papa interrupted. “I’ll have to request one, of course.”
The admiral stared. “Do, and you’ll be cashiered!”
“Only if the verdict goes against me,” Papa assured him.
By the time he got to the stockade, orders from the admiral were waiting, commanding him to return to his duties. The guard could only stare as Papa smiled at the paper, then folded it and turned away. “Uh . . . Colonel?”