Raymond F. Jones
The model shop
Brian Kennely was at once the awe, the idol, and the unadulterated pain in the neck to the junior, assistant, and Project Engineers of Special Developments Lab at North State Electric.
The awe because his brain held more than the combined abilities of most any two of the other Project Engineers plus any three juniors. The idol because he'd take time from his own fantastic Goldbergs to help the lowliest junior with his first resistance coupled amplifier when it howled like a banshee.
And the pain in the neck because whenever a Brian Kennely set of prints went to the model shop all other projects sat on the shelf until the B. K. stuff was done.
This even included the work of Chris Devon, North State's ace engineer, whose specialty was slugging it out with intractable components and circuits that no one else would tackle, until the impossible was accomplished with them.
In his pain-in-the-neck moments Brian Kennely was whisperingly referred to as the cavalier engineer. When he first came to North State, Millie, the lab secretary, had taken in his pipe and smart Stetson, and natty clothes.
"Just like Don Ameche," she'd said. "I'll bet he invents the telephone before next week, the big cavalier —"
But it was only because he had done and was doing the things that most men dream about but never accomplish. They liked him and respected him for it.
Chris Devon had known him since high school. At college they had met Martha, who had chosen Chris over Brian, Chris had never quite understood why, but he was not one to question miracles.
After college, Chris Devon had gone directly into development engineering, but that had been too tame for Brian Kennely who'd gone to Mongolia and South America for several years of geophysical engineering. He had designed instruments that were revolutionizing the science.
Then, shortly before the war, he switched to communication electronics. At Devon's suggestion he'd joined North State, but had spent most of his time as a field engineer. He had been as good as in the front lines during most of the war.
It was inevitable that their opposite natures combined with life-long acquaintance should result in strong mutual attraction. As a consequence, they had determined to take the step dreamed of by most top-flight engineers but seldom achieved. They planned to open their own consulting office as soon as their kitty grew big enough — and it was growing. They'd soon be ready.
But there was still work to be done for North State. And Devon was two weeks behind on a fairly routine project, a remote weather station. His prints had been in the model shop for three weeks now.
And Kennely's —
He squinted up from his propagation calculations as he saw the familiar pipe laid on the top or the desk next to his.
"Hi, Chris," Kennely's voice boomed. He took off his coat. "Trying to put a forecasting unit in that weather station of yours?"
"How can I put anything in it — when it's still a bunch of paper down in MacIllhenney's files?"
"Aw, don't be hard on Mac. He's got his hands full these days, so many boomers passing through his shop pretending they're mechanics."
"Sure, I'd find excuses for him, too, if my stuff were all finished after only five days."
"You mean he's got my job done? Say, that's nice going! Come on down and let's have a look at it."
"I saw it as I passed the model shop on the way in."
Kennely took Devon's arm and hoisted him out of the chair. "Look, Chris, I'll tell you a secret. Here's how I get Mac on the line. Slip him a couple of these six-bit cigars —"
Devon laughed and gave up. You couldn't do anything else with a guy like Brian Kennely.
They walked down the hall to the model shop as Mac opened up.
"I hear you've got my baby all done," said Kennely.
"You only brought it in Monday," said Mac "I told you Wednesday."
"Always kidding, eh?" said Kennely to Devon.
"What's that over in the middle of the floor?" asked Devon. "Isn't that —? Mac! You finished my model, too!"
The foreman stared across the shop at the two completed models. "Well, I'll be —! The boys must have put on a little extra speed yesterday. I had to leave early in the afternoon, but I didn't expect anything like that!"
They entered the shop and walked around the models.
"I never saw anything quite so pretty come out of this dump," said Kennely. "Who've you got on the wiring, Mac?"
"Same girls you always called solder slingers."
"Promote them to senior solder slingers. Come on, Chris, let's get Dick and Charlie to dolly these things into the lab."
The two engineers went back to their lab benches and began setting up test equipment.
Chris Devon's project was a simple station to be used by the Weather Bureau to collect climatological data in places where no co-operative observers could be obtained.
Brian Kennely's project, as always, was the more spectacular. It was a television remote indicating system for use over long distances or in cases of harmful effects to human observers at close range. It was particularly adaptable to radioactive chemistry.
When the two models were wheeled in, Kennely put the plugs for his transmitter and receiver units into the nearest receptacles and waited for the warm up. In a moment the dial needles began to swing over, and the engineer quickly adjusted the controls. The power supply seemed in order. The amplifiers were functioning properly. He switched in the sample instrument indicators, then the video pickup.
In a moment the receiver screen lighted in a blaze of color. He brought the meters into focus. They shone with the sharpness of a modern four-color print.
"What the devil?" Devon exclaimed. "I didn't know you were doing this in color. That's better stuff than the networks have yet."
"Oh, yes." Kennely's manner was his best cavalier style. "Remote chemistry, for example, would be almost impossible without color. This is not bad — for a first model."
The other engineers gathered around now, gaping at the excellence of the color television. Devon returned to his own prosaic setup. He'd have to get busy and push some of these weather stations out the door before he got cut off at the pockets. Webber, the chief engineer, wasn't happy with the lack of progress on the project, which was budgeted at one hundred thousand dollars with no wartime cost-plus, either.
Devon glanced over the beautifully arranged array of dials and indicators on the viewing panel. He checked the mounting of the scanner tube.
Something was wrong. Then he saw it — so obvious that he'd had to look three times in the same spot before it registered. There was an extra row of instruments on the viewing panel. He stared at them and swore to himself. Why couldn't they follow a blueprint down in the model shop?
What he saw was incomprehensible. On the unscheduled row of meters was the designation: Prognostication.
Groups of dials with variable time scales indicated pressure, temperature, and relative humidity, and precipitation rates.
Brian Kennely came up quietly. "Nice job on yours, too," he said. "Tried it out yet?"
"Some yokel down there is trying to be funny! Look —"
"So you did put in a forecast unit! I didn't know."
"Of course not! There isn't any such animal. Somebody's painted a panel and put some dials on it. I can take a joke, but they've loused up the whole layout and Webber wants this stuff by the end of the week."
"Mine works," said Kennely, calmly drawing on his pipe.
"What do you mean?"
"Mine has unauthorized additions, too — but keep it under your hat. I don't want these other guys to know about it."
"What are you talking about?"
"The color business for one thing. You know as well as I do that no conventional color circuits could be put into a setup like mine."