But while the first five tanks contained clear liquids that smelled like turpentine, the last two both contained something black like the dope, but with different codes. So I had to make a choice. Selecting the tank with the drip can that smelled most like the dope, I filled the graduate, congratulating myself for not having to waste time until Kimbro returned.
The work went faster now, the mixing easier. The pigment and heavy oils came free of the bottom much quicker, and when Kimbro returned I was going at top speed. "How many have you finished?" he asked.
"About seventy-five, I think, sir. I lost count."
"That's pretty good, but not fast enough. They've been putting pressure on me to get the stuff out. Here, I'll give you a hand."
They must have given him hell, I thought, as he got grunting to his knees and began removing covers from the buckets. But he had hardly started when he was called away.
When he left I took a look at the last bunch of samples and got a shock: Instead of the smooth, hard surface of the first, they were covered with a sticky goo through which I could see the grain of the wood. What on earth had happened? The paint was not as white and glossy as before; it had a gray tinge. I stirred it vigorously, then grabbed a rag, wiping each of the boards clean, then made a new sample of each bucket. I grew panicky lest Kimbro return before I finished. Working feverishly, I made it, but since the paint required a few minutes to dry I picked up two finished buckets and started lugging them over to the loading platform. I dropped them with a thump as the voice rang out behind me. It was Kimbro.
"What the hell!" he yelled, smearing his finger over one of the samples. "This stuff's still wet!"
I didn't know what to say. He snatched up several of the later samples, smearing them, and letting out a groan. "Of all the things to happen to me. First they take all my good men and then they send me you. What'd you do to it?"
"Nothing, sir. I followed your directions," I said defensively.
I watched him peer into the graduate, lifting the dropper and sniffing it, his face glowing with exasperation.
"Who the hell gave you this?"
"No one ..."
"Then where'd you get it?"
"From the tank room."
Suddenly he dashed for the tank room, sloshing the liquid as he ran. I thought, Oh, hell, and before I could follow, he burst out of the door in a frenzy.
"You took the wrong tank," he shouted. "What the hell, you trying to sabotage the company? That stuff wouldn't work in a million years. It's remover, concentrated remover! Don't you know the difference?"
"No, sir, I don't. It looked the same to me. I didn't know what I was using and you didn't tell me. I was trying to save time and took what I thought was right."
"But why this one?"
"Because it smelled the same --" I began.
"Smelted!" he roared. "Goddamit, don't you know you can't smell shit around all those fumes? Come on to my office!"
I was torn between protesting and pleading for fairness. It was not all my fault and I didn't want the blame, but I did wish to finish out the day. Throbbing with anger I followed, listening as he called personnel.
"Hello? Mac? Mac, this is Kimbro. It's about this fellow you sent me this morning. I'm sending him in to pick up his pay ... What did he do? He doesn't satisfy me, that's what. I don't like his work ... So the old man has to have a report, so what? Make him one. Tell him goddamit this fellow ruined a batch of government stuff -- Hey! No, don't tell him that ... Listen, Mac, you got anyone else out there? ... Okay, forget it."
He crashed down the phone and swung toward me. "I swear I don't know why they hire you fellows. You just don't belong in a paint plant. Come on."
Bewildered, I followed him into the tank room, yearning to quit and tell him to go to hell. But I needed the money, and even though this was the North I wasn't ready to fight unless I had to. Here I'd be one against how many?
I watched him empty the graduate back into the tank and noted carefully when he went to another marked SKA-3-69-T-Y and refilled it. Next time I would know.
"Now, for God's sake," he said, handing me the graduate, "be careful and try to do the job right. And if you don't know what to do, ask somebody. I'll be in my office."
I returned to the buckets, my emotions whirling. Kimbro had forgotten to say what was to be done with the spoiled paint. Seeing it there I was suddenly seized by an angry impulse, and, filling the dropper with fresh dope, I stirred ten drops into each bucket and pressed home the covers. Let the government worry about that, I thought, and started to work on the unopened buckets. I stirred until my arm ached and painted the samples as smoothly as I could, becoming more skillful as I went along.
When Kimbro came down the floor and watched I glanced up silently and continued stirring.
"How is it?" he said, frowning.
"I don't know," I said, picking up a sample and hesitating.
"Well?"
"It's nothing ... a speck of dirt," I said, standing and holding out the sample, a tightness growing within me.
Holding it close to his face, he ran his fingers over the surface and squinted at the texture. "That's more like it," he said. "That's the way it oughta be."
I watched with a sense of unbelief as he rubbed his thumb over the sample, handed it back and left without a further word.
I looked at the painted slab. It appeared the same: a gray tinge glowed through the whiteness, and Kimbro had failed to detect it. I stared for about a minute, wondering if I were seeing things, inspected another and another. All were the same, a brilliant white diffused with gray, I closed my eyes for a moment and looked again and still no change. Well, I thought, as long as he's satisfied ...
But I had a feeling that something had gone wrong, something far more important than the paint; that either I had played a trick on Kimbro or he, like the trustees and Bledsoe, was playing one on me ...
When the truck backed up to the platform I was pressing the cover on the last bucket -- and there stood Kimbro above me.
"Let's see your samples," he said.
I reached, trying to select the whitest, as the blue-shirted truckmen climbed through the loading door.
"How about it, Kimbro," one of them said, "can we get started?"
"Just a minute, now," he said, studying the sample, "just a minute ..."
I watched him nervously, waiting for him to throw a fit over the gray tinge and hating myself for feeling nervous and afraid. What would I say? But now he was turning to the truckmen.
"All right, boys, get the hell out of here.
"And you," he said to me, "go see MacDuffy; you're through."
I stood there, staring at the back of his head, at the pink neck beneath the cloth cap and the iron-gray hair. So he'd let me stay only to finish the mixing. I turned away, there was nothing that I could do. I cursed him all the way to the personnel office. Should I write the owners about what had happened? Perhaps they didn't know that Kimbro was having so much to do with the quality of the paint. But upon reaching the office I changed my mind. Perhaps that is how things are done here, I thought, perhaps the real quality of the paint is always determined by the man who ships it rather than by those who mix it. To hell with the whole thing ... I'll find another job.
But I wasn't fired. MacDuffy sent me to the basement of Building No. 2 on a new assignment.
"When you get down there just tell Brockway that Mr. Sparland insists that he have an assistant. You do whatever he tells you."
"What is that name again, sir?" I said.
"Lucius Brockway," he said. "He's in charge."
IT WAS a deep basement. Three levels underground I pushed upon a heavy metal door marked "Danger" and descended into a noisy, dimly lit room. There was something familiar about the fumes that filled the air and I had just thought pine, when a high-pitched Negro voice rang out above the machine sounds.