John D. MacDonald
The Pastel Production Line
They say it is twenty steps, more or less, that they make you walk when they have the intention of giving you a haircut with a guillotine. My notice of execution was delivered to me in the form of a wire, as I was timing operations in the forge room at Donner Industries in Sheboygan. It said:
BE IN MY OFFICE AT TEN A.M. SEPTEMBER ELEVENTH.
That needs a little explanation. When the term “efficiency expert” began to smell too loud, they renamed guys like me “Industrial Engineer.” I slave for the firm of Bellows and Murch, Industrial Engineers. My name is Sam Ladder. They pay me fifty-five hundred a year plus fifteen hundred expenses, and call me an “intermediate consultant.” They sell the services of people like me to client firms at a rate of fifteen hundred bucks per month per man. My job is usually switching production lines around to give cheaper operation, better quality and more speed. Thus I am unpopular with labor, management, the firm and myself. My qualifications are a degree in mechanical engineering, eight years of experience, a knowledge of metallurgy, a face to frighten children, and grease under my fingernails.
I know that the terms of employment are a good deal for Bellows and Murch, and I keep telling myself that I like the work. That rosy glow on the horizon over there is a standing offer. Bellows and Murch will pay any employee ten per cent of the take from any contract he is instrumental in placing. The only trouble is that they keep you so busy earning that fifteen hundred a month for the firm, that you’ve got no time to cut yourself in on the rosy glow.
The word among us slaves is that the only reason J. Arthur Murch ever wants to see you is to give you the heave-ho. That accounts for the slow dirge music in the back of my head as I tried to sleep on the sleeper. But there was counterpoint music in a lighter vein. Seeing J. Arthur would also include seeing J. Arthur’s secretary, one Ginny Davo, with whom I have had numerous conversations in which she has done most of the talking, saying things like: “You’re no better than a nomad, Sam, and I want a house in one spot, with some permanent friends, and I look forward with no pleasure to any life which consists of eight months in West Overshoe, Idaho, followed by six months in Sandy Blast, Texas. I hate packing and unpacking: and though you are a sweet guy, Sam, I’m a gal with roots like an elm tree.”
So maybe it was a combination of dirges: An opportunity to be fired by J. Arthur, and another large “No” from the chestnut-topped morsel.
At quarter to ten, with a pronounced sag, I rode up in the elevator to the thirty-fourth floor of the Willet Building, clutching in a sweaty palm my brief case full of notes, and feeling slightly dizzy. I kept telling myself that it was a fine plan to get fired, but I had sales resistance.
Mabel on the front desk looked at me and said, “Oh,” which is her normal greeting, though somewhat disconcerting at any time. I plodded down the soundproof corridor and turned into J. Arthur’s outer office, where Ginny sits enthroned behind a three-hundred-dollar desk and a typewriter with everything but a reverse gear.
I dropped hat and brief case on one of the torture chairs, grabbed her firmly by the chin and kissed her with authority.
She backed away from it and said: “Sam, you’ve got the finesse of an air-hammer. Save your strength for J. Arthur.”
“What happens to me, Ginny? Is it bad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what are you doing in here? Don’t you work for the guy?”
“I’m an employee, and not a confidante,” she said primly.
I sat down. “Honey, if he fires me, I can get a nice quiet job in one spot and then you can marry me, hey?”
“Come back and ask me again after you’ve spent a year in this nice quiet job you might find. I want proof that you’re going to stay put.”
Before I could think of a new way to ask her, a languid citizen walked in and handed her a card. He was about thirty, tall, slim, tweedy and superior. I resented her handing out her best smile. “I’ll tell him you’re here, Dr. Hawes.”
She clicked on the box and said: “Dr. Hawes has arrived.”
J. Arthur’s voice blared metallic-ally: “Is Ladder there?”
“He just arrived also, sir.”
“Send them both in.”
When I opened the door, Dr. Hawes strolled by me. J. Arthur Murch has all the lean grace of a socket wrench. He wears gray suits, gray ties, a gray face and gray hair. He is without passion. He looks as though the sharp angles of his cheeks and jaw would scratch a carborundum block. The only thing he keeps on the top of his desk is a pair of dice he made himself out of tool steel. I’ve heard that they’re loaded.
I was surprised to see him bounce up, come out from behind his period desk and shake hands with the blond and languid Dr. Hawes. “It’s indeed a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hawes... Hello, Ladder.”
Before we sat down, he said: “Dr. Walter S. Hawes; this is Sam Ladder.” We shook hands. The Doc let go quickly. I had expected his hand to feel like fresh putty, but it was surprisingly warm and firm.
We sat on the other side of the desk from J. Arthur, squinting into the light from the big windows behind him. J. Arthur put his elbows on the desk and made a little cathedral with his fingers. He peered through it at us and said: “Dr. Hawes, Ladder here is one of our practical young men. He’s been with us for eight years, except for the war period, of course. I think he’ll meet your requirements.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Don’t interrupt, and you’ll find out sooner, Ladder,” Murch said. “Dr. Hawes is an economist. You’ve probably heard of him. He’s been very active in Washington for several years as a consultant to various Government bureaus. Dr. Hawes came to me several weeks ago with a suggestion. He felt that the broad view of economics could be applied to some of our problems, and suggested that he be given an opportunity to work with us when our next problem of plant utilization came up. We now have that problem.”
Dr. Hawes stared at me calmly. “Yes, Ladder. It has been arranged that we work together. You will, of course, work out the practical aspects of my plans.”
“Dr. Hawes will not technically be an employee, Ladder,” Murch said smoothly. “We are hiring him at a sizable daily retainer, and he will be in charge of the job.”
“Things slowing up in Washington?” I asked.
Hawes said distantly: “Not at all, old boy. In fact, I might say that several important persons are quite interested in this experiment. It has a bearing on the entire problem of how much Government can contribute to industry.”
“I thought it was vice versa,” I said.
“Your attitude is disappointing,” J. Arthur said.
I said quickly: “It should be very interesting.” A gesture of appeasement. I was baffled. I have known of J. Arthur Murch speaking softly about the Government, using words that would send mule-skinners screaming for the hills, and not repeating himself for minutes on end. His attitude could only be described as incredible.
J. Arthur reached over and grabbed a thick pile of blueprints and lists of equipment off a table by the windows. He passed them to Hawes, saying: “The plant in question is the Poughkeepsie plant of the Wilkinson Company. It has been idle for well over two years. In fact, it has never been used. It was built to manufacture some sort of flame-throwing apparatus, and the war ended just when they were ready to go into production. The Wilkinson Company is owned by Contract Electric, who have been one of our biggest clients for years. Mr. Judd of Contract Electric has asked us to survey the plant and make recommendations regarding utilization. Here is all the data on the plant. There’s a watchman there at all hours. Gentlemen, you may begin. I’ll expect a preliminary report inside of two weeks’ time.”