Phase Three would occur after the plant was paid for. That was the dilly. Then, men from this community would be put on the Government payroll to go around the country and help establish similar communities all over the U.S.
It was beautifully written — and almost convincing. It talked, in the end, about “unification of the tools of production” and “community pride in workmanship” and “a return to the days of the guilds, when men worked harmoniously for a common end.”
I ordered another drink and looked at him. He was beaming proudly at me. “What do you think?”
“I think it is the world’s prize example of backward reasoning, Doc. Other than that, it’s beautiful.”
He turned grim. “Permit me to hear your objections.”
“Sure. Take hinges for the front doors. A firm makes them for a few cents each. So, instead of buying them, they make them in a shop that isn’t suited for it. They hand-make them — cost maybe three or four or ten bucks a pair. Wasted effort.”
“Ah, but you forget the psychological aspects of having the plant supply all the needs of the community. What you said about the plant being able to make anything that is made out of metal is what started me off on this line of thinking.”
“Okay! So what about the second phase when they decide what they’re going to make? Maybe they pick something they can’t make efficiently. Then they can’t compete in the market without cutting their prices down below cost. They lose money.”
“Money? So they lose money. The Government will willingly support this venture through the trial stages.”
“But it’s backward. Why not set the plant up to make a good product at a good price, and then later let the employees buy in? If it’s profitable enough, the company can build their houses for them. Eventually they can own it.”
“Nonsense, Ladder! That’s paternalism. The employees would always feel as if a bone had been thrown to them. This way, it’s their plant from the beginning.”
“And a bottomless well to toss money into. It would mean a deal where a man couldn’t get himself fired unless he committed actual murder. Every time I’ve seen a setup like that, I’ve seen sloppy production.”
“You want to use a big whip?”
“Nuts! I want guys on their toes. I work twice as hard because I’m always wondering when Murch is going to think of a good excuse to bounce me out.”
“You’re a traditionalist, Ladder.”
“And you’re a metaphysical nincompoop, Doc.”
“Obviously we can’t agree, Ladder. My report will be the one turned in.”
“Along with mine.”
“Remember now, you’re working for me.”
“For a little while. And you remember, my professorial friend, that the job of Bellows and Murch is to show Contract Electric how they can make dough. If it’s a profitable operation, the employees will get fat wages — and I have yet to see a guy that’ll trade in a fat pay envelope for a social experiment.”
“The Government will pay them well.”
“Did I hear you talk about paternalism with a sneer, Doc?”
He stood up, snatched his paper and walked off. I sipped what was left of my drink, and what, with the slight buzz, I called Ginny up. She said no again, told me that I had been drinking, and hung up.
Dr. Walter S. Hawes and I did very little talking on the way down. It was raining, and the tires made a slick noise on the concrete of the Parkway. He dropped me off at my hotel and said: “Nine o’clock sharp in Mr. Murch’s office, Ladder — and you wall co-sign my report before you go in.”
“Just like next year I’ll pitch for the Dodgers.”
“You may be looking for that sort of job,” he said, and drove away.
When I walked in, Ginny Davo looked like a May morning, and her eyes had a sparkle like silver dollars. Doc hadn’t arrived.
I said: “Why couldn’t I get hold of you last night, honey?”
“Why Doctor Hawes took me out, Sam. Didn’t you know?”
“No, I didn’t. To a lecture, I presume.”
“To a very fine little club in the Village, Sam.”
“Had a good time, I presume.”
“Why, of course, Sam. There’s no need for you to get so nasty. And I was sorry to hear Walter say that you had been no help to him at all up in Poughkeepsie.”
I got as far as, “Why, that—” when he walked in, practically arm in arm with J. Arthur Murch.
Doc said, “Good morning, Virginia.” And Murch — the old traitor — beamed at both of them.
We went on into the office, and my own report was burning a hole in my pocket. It was only two pages, and most of it was a list of operations, with a code symbol to indicate whether or not the operation could be done on existing equipment.
We sat as before, and Murch constructed his little cathedral to peer through. He said: “Well?”
Hawes cleared his throat. “Before I begin, Mr. Murch, I want to point out that not only did Mr. Ladder give me no help whatsoever, but he has a closed mind and refuses to consider my conclusions.”
J. Arthur glared at me. “What’s the reason for your attitude, Ladder?”
“The guy’s a crackpot, Mr. Murch.”
“Shut up! Proceed, Dr. Hawes.”
Hawes whipped out his report and began to read it in a clear voice, vibrant with feeling and social consequence. I studied Murch’s face while all this was going on, trying to guess what must be going on inside his cold gray head. The report certainly violated all the traditions that he had drummed into the thick heads of his slaves. The minutes kept by, and the clear voice emoted on. Murch stared at his fingers, his mouth thin and straight.
At last the resounding final paragraph was over. J. Arthur coughed. He twiddled his fingers. He smiled at Hawes. “That... uh... that certainly is interesting, Dr. Hawes. Very interesting. But as to the practical aspects of the case—” My heart gave a great bound, and I reached for my report. Murch continued: “Can you be certain that the appropriation would go through?” I nearly fell on the floor.
Hawes beamed. “With my knowledge of Washington procedure, Mr. Murch, I can practically guarantee it.”
“Hmm. We’d better see Mr. Judd at the earliest possible opportunity. I’ll phone him right away, and we can take the report over.”
There was a squeak in my voice as I said: “But, Mr. Murch! That layout is a natural for a portable metal-spraying gimmick, and I’ve got my report—”
Hawes said, coolly: “Old boy, can’t you see that Mr. Murch isn’t the least bit interested in your trivial little report?”
That did it! That tore it right in half. I bounded out of the chair and went after him. Something was making a growling noise, and I realized dimly that it was me. He got up quick, and I tried to ram my right fist right down his throat. I wanted to hear those teeth come off.
His mouth wasn’t where it should have been. It was like missing a golf ball. An empty feeling. Something exploded sharply on my chin. I came up off my knees to see Hawes dancing in front of me in a gray mist. Somehow he looked as though he knew what he was doing. On my third swing I connected. I found him by Braille, straddled him and was trying to bust his face down through the floor — when the lights went out...
I was dead and in heaven, and an angel was ministering to me. When I woke up a little more, I saw that the angel was Ginny. She was pale, and she had been crying. I struggled up and held my head and said: “Whoo! What happened?”