"What kinda cases?"
"Not sure," Bet said. "Has somethin' to do with the lubricants you use."
The Migs stiffened. "What's wrong with 'em?" the beefy man asked.
"Can't tell. Seems to be some kind of virus. Hits only males."
"What's it do to them?"
Sten shrugged. "Let's just say, they ain't been havin' much of a sex life lately."
"And probably never will," Bet chimed in.
The Migs looked at each other.
Sten grabbed Bet by the arm and pulled her away. "Good luck, boys," he yelled back over his shoulder.
The Migs didn't even notice them leap over the barrier and hurry off down another slideway. They were too busy looking impotent.
Ida positively purred into the microphone. Doc sat beside her, checking his notes, making sure she made the right points in the right untrustworthy tone of voice.
"Before we begin our next request, fellow workers, we have an announcement. This is from the Health Center, and the people over there are very concerned about a rumor that's been going around.
"A silly rumor, really. It has to do with viral contamination of lubricants at Bearing Works Twenty-three.
"Ah, excuse me—I mean with the noncontamination of lubricants at…Never mind. It is totally without foundation, the Health Center informs us. And there is no cause for alarm.
"It is absolutely not true that it causes impotency among males—Correction. There is no contamination—but if there were, it would not affect the potency of males.
"Uh…I guess that's it. Now, for our next selection—"
Ida flipped the switch and the regular broadcast boomed in. Just as a song was starting. She turned to Doc, beaming.
"How'd I do?"
"I am happily considering all those poor, suffering Mig libidos."
The following shift, only eight Migs showed up for work at the bearing factory. Within fifteen minutes those eight had also heard about the broadcast denial and were on their way out.
Patris, disguised as a Sociopatrolman, leaned casually against a wall. Watching the Migs at play in the rec area. Another Delinq—a woman dressed like a joygirl—chatted with him. Pretending to be on the make.
A tall, skinny Mig caught their attention. He was working a gambling 'puter. Inserting his card, waiting as lights and wheels flashed. Cursing as he kept coming up empty-handed. In the card went again for another try.
"He's been at it an hour," Patris whispered to the girl. She glanced over at the Mig.
"Probably just added six months to his contract," she said.
She turned, slipped over to a duct, stumbled against it. ‘There's our mark," she whispered to the Delinq inside. A scuttling sound and he was away.
Hours later, the Mig was still at it. Inside the wall, behind the gambling machine, the Delinq manipulated the controls with a bluebox of Ida's evil devise. He kept the Mig just interested enough by feeding him a few wins. But steadily, the man was losing. "Clot," he finally shouted. Turned and stalked away from the machine.
Patris flicked an invisible speck from his uniform and strolled over to the gambling 'puter. He waited just until the Mig looked his way. Inserted a card. Instant sirens…bells…lights going wild. The loser Mig froze.
"Clot," he said to a Mig beside him. "See what that slime just did?"
"Yeah. Got himself a fortune."
"But I been playin' that thing half the day. Don't gimme a clottin' credit. Then he walks up and…"
Other Migs gathered at the sound of the winning machine, overheard the loser Mig, then cast nasty looks at Patris. Patris finally pretended to notice. He stalked over to the crowd, swinging his stun rod.
"On your way," he ordered. "Quit gawkin' and git." The angry crowd hesitated. "Stinkin' cheat, that's what it is," somebody yelled from the back. The somebody being the "joygirl" Delinq.
"You should'a seen him," the loser Mig shouted. "He stole what I should'a won." More angry grumbling. Patris hit the panic burton and in a flash, a squad of patrolmen were rushing to his rescue. He waited until they closed on the crowd, then faded out of sight.
"Fellow workers," Ida said. "We all must be grateful for the marvelous recreational centers provided by the Company. At no small expense, I might add.
"For instance, the gambling 'puters, which give us all good clean, honest fun. Company statistics prove that the machines pay off more credits than they take.
"But there are always losers, who now are spreading a terrible rumor. So terrible it almost embarrasses me to repeat it—However, there is no truth to the story that the machines are set to pay off only to high Company officials. No truth at all. Why, some liars have even indicated that the machines only pay off to Sociopatrolmen. Can you imagine that! The very men hired at no small expense by the Company to…"
Jorgensen came up with the masterstroke. "That's lightweight stuff," he said. "You gotta hit a guy where it really hurts."
"Such as," Doc sniffed, a little hurt.
"Like beer."
The following shift break swarms of Migs streamed into the rec domes. Offered their cards and settled back for a cool one. Nothing. Not one drop. The machine merely swallowed the card, deducted credits, and then chuckled at the Mig to go away.
"Clot I will," shouted one big Mig. He shoved his card in again. Still nothing. He slammed a meaty fist into the machine. "Gimme!"
"I am Company property," the machine informed him. "Violation of my being carries severe penalties."
The Mig kicked the machine in answer. Alarms went off at five Sociopatrol centers. They steamed to the rescue. Only to find empty domes. Empty except for the twisted hulks of beer machines. All looted of their contents and groaning on the floor.
Doc shook his head.
"No. Too obvious. Not gray enough. Skip talking about the beer, Ida, and go to the food situation instead."
Ida turned to her microphone.
"Fellow workers, the Company is pleased to announce a new health program. They have discovered that we are all getting much too overweight.
"Therefore, beginning next shift, all food rations will be reduced thirty percent.
"That thirty—Sorry, we're in error. That program will not take effect until…until—What? Wrong announcement? Oh, kill it! The program is no go!
"Fellow workers, there is no truth to the report that food supplies will be cut thirty percent next…"
Sten side-stepped a drunken Mig, sloshing a little beer, then pushed through the crowd to Bet. Set down their beers and settled into a seat beside her.
"I'll tell ya," a Mig said to his companions, "they've gone too far now. Too clottin' far."
Sten winked at Bet, who smiled back.
"They cheat us. Mess with our sex lives, try to screw with our beer. Now they're gonna increase all work contracts one year."
"Where'd ja hear that?"
"Just now. From that woman on the radio."
"But she said it was just a rumor."
"Yeah. Sure it is. If it's a rumor, how come they're tryin' to deny it so hard?"
"He's got a point," Sten broke in.
The Mig turned to Sten. Peered at him, then grinned. Slapped him on the shoulder.
"Sure I do. That's the way the Company always works—feed you a rumor, get the reaction, then spring it on you for real."
"Remember last year," Bet said. "There was that rumor we were all gonna lose three paid holidays? What happened?"
"We lost 'em," the Mig said sullenly.
His friends all sipped beer. Thoughtful. Angry.
"What the clot," someone sighed. "Nothin' we do about it 'cept complain?"
Nods of agreement.
"I tell ya," the first Mig said, "I'd sure do something about it if I could. Hell, I got no family, I'd take the risk."