Produced by Greg Weeks, David Wilson and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
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| Transcriber's note: |
| |
| This story was published in _If: Worlds of Science Fiction_, |
| September, 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any |
| evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was |
| renewed. |
| |
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[Illustration]
_Illustrated by Ed Emsh_
CONFIDENCE GAME
_Cutter demanded more and more and more efficiency--and got it! But,
as in anything, enough is enough, and too much is..._
By JAMES McKIMMEY, JR.
George H. Cutter wheeled his big convertible into his reserved space in
the Company parking lot with a flourish. A bright California sun drove
its early brightness down on him as he strode toward the square,
four-story brick building which said _Cutter Products, Inc._ over its
front door. A two-ton truck was grinding backward, toward the loading
doors, the thick-shouldered driver craning his neck. Cutter moved
briskly forward, a thick-shouldered man himself, though not very tall. A
glint of light appeared in his eyes, as he saw Kurt, the truck driver,
fitting the truck's rear end into the tight opening.
"Get that junk out of the way!" he yelled, and his voice roared over the
noise of the truck's engine.
Kurt snapped his head around, his blue eyes thinning, then recognition
spread humor crinkles around his eyes and mouth. "All right, sir," he
said. "Just a second while I jump out, and I'll lift it out of your
way."
"With bare hands?" Cutter said.
"With bare hands," Kurt said.
Cutter's laugh boomed, and as he rounded the front of the truck, he
struck the right front fender with his fist. Kurt roared back from the
cab with his own laughter.
He liked joking harshly with Kurt and with the rest of the truck
drivers. They were simple, and they didn't have his mental strength. But
they had another kind of strength. They had muscle and energy, and most
important, they had guts. Twenty years before Cutter had driven a truck
himself. The drivers knew that, and there was a bond between them, the
drivers and himself, that seldom existed between employer and employee.
The guard at the door came to a reflex attention, and Cutter bobbed his
head curtly. Then, instead of taking the stairway that led up the front
to the second floor and his office, he strode down the hallway to the
left, angling through the shop on the first floor. He always walked
through the shop. He liked the heavy driving sound of the machines in
his ears, and the muscled look of the men, in their coarse work shirts
and heavy-soled shoes. Here again was strength, in the machines and in
the men.
[Illustration]
And here again too, the bond between Cutter and his employees was a
thing as real as the whir and grind and thump of the machines, as real
as the spray of metal dust, spitting away from a spinning saw blade. He
was able to drive himself through to them, through the hard wall of
unions and prejudices against business suits and white collars and soft
clean hands, because they knew that at one time he had also been a
machinist and then tool and die operator and then a shop foreman. He got
through to them, and they respected him. They were even inspired by him,
Cutter knew, by his energy and alertness and steel confidence. It was
one good reason why their production continually skimmed along near the
top level of efficiency.
Cutter turned abruptly and started up the metal-lipped concrete steps to
the second floor. He went up quickly, his square, almost chunky figure
moving smoothly, and there was not the faintest shortening in his breath
when he reached the level of his own office.
Coming up the back steps required him to cross the entire administration
office which contained the combined personnel of Production Control,
Procurement, and Purchasing. And here, the sharp edge of elation,
whetted by the walk past the loading dock and the truck drivers and the
machine shop and the machinists, was dulled slightly.
On either side of him as he paced rapidly across the room, were the rows
of light-oak desks which contained the kind of men he did not like:
fragile men, whether thin or fat, fragile just the same, in the eyes and
mouth, and pale with their fragility. They affected steel postures
behind those desks, but Cutter knew that the steel was synthetic, that
there was nothing in that mimicked look of alertness and virility but
posing. They were a breed he did not understand, because he had never
been a part of them, and so this time, the invisible but very real
quality of employer-employee relationship turned coldly brittle, like
frozen cellophane.
The sounds now, the clicking of typewriters, the sliding of file
drawers, the squeak of adjusted swivel chairs--all of it--irritated him,
rather than giving him inspiration, and so he hurried his way,
especially when he passed that one fellow with the sad, frightened eyes,
who touched his slim hands at the papers on his desk, like a cautious
fawn testing the soundness of the earth in front of him. What was his
name? Linden? God, Cutter thought, the epitome of the breed, this man:
sallow and slow and so hesitant that he appeared to be about to leap
from his chair at the slightest alarm.
Cutter broke his aloofness long enough to glare at the man, and Linden
turned his frightened eyes quickly to his desk and began shuffling his
papers nervously. Some day, Cutter promised himself, he was going to
stop in front of the man and shout, "Booo!" and scare the poor devil to
hell and back.
He pushed the glass doors that led to his own offices, and moving into
Lucile's ante-room restored his humor. Lucile, matronly yet quick and
youthfully spirited, smiled at him and met his eyes directly. Here was
some strength again, and he felt the full energy of his early-morning
drive returning fully. Lucile, behind her desk in this plain but
expensive reception room, reminded him of fast, hard efficiency, the
quality of accomplishment that he had dedicated himself to.
"Goddamned sweet morning, eh, Lucy?" he called.
"Beautiful, George," she said. She had called him by his first name for
years. He didn't mind, from her. Not many could do it, but those who
could, successfully, he respected.
"What's up first?" he asked, and she followed him into his own office.
It was a high-ceilinged room, with walls bare except for a picture of
Alexander Hamilton on one wall, and an award plaque from the State
Chamber of Commerce on the opposite side of the room. He spun his
leather-cushioned swivel chair toward him and sat down and placed his
thick hands against the surface of the desk. Lucile took the only other
chair in the office, to the side of the desk, and flipped open her
appointment pad.
"Quay wants to see you right away. Says it's important."
Cutter nodded slightly and closed his eyes. Lucile went on, calling his
appointments for the day with clicking precision. He stored the
information, leaning back in his chair, adjusting his mind to each, so
that there would be no energy wasted during the hard, swift day.
"That's it," Lucile said. "Do you want to see Quay?"
"Send him in," Cutter said, and he was already leaning into his desk,
signing his name to the first of a dozen letters which he had dictated
into the machine during the last ten minutes of the preceding day.
Lucile disappeared, and three minutes later Robert Quay took her place
in the chair beside Cutter's desk. He was a taller man than Cutter, and
thinner. Still, there was an athletic grace about him, a sureness of
step and facial expression, that made it obvious that he was physically
fit. He was single and only thirty-five, twelve years younger than
Cutter, but he had been with Cutter Products, Inc. for thirteen years.
In college he had been a Phi Beta Kappa and lettered three years on the
varsity as a quarterback. He was the kind of rare combination that
Cutter liked, and Cutter had offered him more than the Chicago Cardinals
to get him at graduation.
Cutter felt Quay's presence, without looking up at him. "Goddamned sweet
morning, eh, Bob?"
"It really is, George," Quay said.
"What's up?" Cutter stopped signing, having finished the entire job, and
he stared directly into Quay's eyes. Quay met the stare unflinchingly.
"I've got a report from Sid Perry at Adacam Research."
"Your under-cover agent again, eh?"
Quay grinned. Adacam Research conducted industrial experimentation which
included government work. The only way to find out what really went on
there, Cutter had found out, was to find a key man who didn't mind
talking for a certain amount of compensation, regardless of sworn oaths
and signatures to government statements. You could always get somebody,
Cutter knew, and Quay had been able to get a young chemist, Sidney
Perry.
"Okay," Cutter said. "What are they doing over there?"
"There's a fellow who's offered Adacam his project for testing. They're
highly interested, but they're not going to handle it."
"Why not?"