Ross shrugged. "Try anything once, I guess." He adjusted the band to his
head, then stood, looking at the two men.
"_Notice anything?_" Bond looked at him sharply.
Again, Ross shrugged. "Nothing special," he said with a slight grunt.
"Seems as though this guy's pretty nervous."
"_You don't have to say anything, just think it. And see if you can
communicate with Graham._"
"Huh?" Ross had been looking directly at Bond. He frowned.
"_You mean, this thing--_" He paused, looking for a moment at Graham,
then took the headband off. "Thing doesn't feel good," he complained. He
held the device out to Bond, who accepted it.
"But it works? You could communicate both ways with it?"
"Oh, sure." Ross nodded grudgingly. "I got you, all right. But I
couldn't get a thing out of this guy." He wagged his head toward Graham.
"Except he was jittery about something."
"I see. Thanks." Bond accepted the headband. "We're going to take these
to Research," he added. "Let the technicians there find out how good
they are." He turned away and led Graham to his helicopter.
As Graham settled in the seat, he turned to the sector leader. "He just
couldn't use it properly," he remarked. "Maybe only certain people _can_
use them."
Bond nodded as he started the motor. "Or maybe only certain people
can't." He busied himself in getting the machine up through the landing
slot, then turned as they climbed into the night sky.
"Maybe you've got to be able to understand and like people before you
can establish full contact with them. Maybe ... Maybe a lot of things."
He was silent for a moment. "You know, this thing might become far more
valuable than you thought, Graham."
* * * * *
Howard Morely looked up from a memo as the clerk tapped on the door.
"Come in."
The man opened the door and stepped inside.
"Sector Leader Bond is here, sir. He has some gentlemen with him."
"And what does he want?"
"He said it was about that new communicator, sir."
"Oh." Morely turned his attention back to the memo. "Have them wait." He
waved a hand in dismissal and went on with his reading.
The beautification program was progressing well. Twenty miles of the old
main highway through the valley had been completely cleared and planted.
Crews were working on another stretch. The foreman of the wrecking crew
down at the point, in Sector Nine, reported that the last bit of scrap
had been removed from the old bridge support. Underwater crews had
salvaged the cables and almost all of the metal from the fallen bridge
itself, and the scrap was on the beach, ready for delivery to the
reclamation mills in District One.
Morely smiled sourly. Harwood would have a storage problem on his hands
in a day or so. The delay in delivery could be explained and justified.
Morely had seen to that. Now, all the material was ready and could be
delivered in one lot.
Harwood would have to raise his production quota in his community mills
to use up the excess material, and that would slow down the clean-up in
District One. The Old Man couldn't help but notice, and he'd see who was
efficient in his region. The district leader pushed the memo sheets
aside and placed his hands behind his head.
Slowly, he pivoted his chair, to look at the entertainment screen. He
started to energize it, then drew his hand back.
So that crackpot, Graham, had finally come up with something definite.
Morely smiled again. It had almost seemed as though the man had been
stalling for a while. But the pressure and the veiled threats had been
productive--again.
To be sure, the agents covering that project had reported that the
device seemed to be merely another fairly good means of
communication--nothing of any tremendous importance. But results had
been obtained, and a communicator which was reasonably free from
interception and which required relatively low power might be of some
value to the community. He might be able to get a commendation out of
it, at least.
And even if it were unsuitable for defense, there'd be a new product for
one of the luxury products plants in the district, and the district
would get royalties from the manufacturer. Too, it would keep people
busy and make 'em spend more of their credits.
He grimaced at his vague reflection in the screen before him, and spoke
aloud.
"That's the way to get things done. Make 'em know who's in charge. And
let 'em know that no nonsense will be tolerated. Breathe down their
necks a little. They'll produce." He cleared his throat and spun around,
to punch the button on his desk.
* * * * *
The door opened and the clerk stood, respectfully awaiting orders.
"Send in Bond and the people with him."
The clerk stepped back, turning his head.
"You may go in now, sir." He disappeared around the door.
Harold Bond stepped through the doorway, followed by two men. Morely
looked at them closely. Engineers, he thought.
"What have you got?" he demanded.
One of the men opened a briefcase and removed a large, dully gleaming
band. Apparently, it was made of plastic, or some light alloy, for he
handled it as though it weighed very little.
As the man laid it on the desk, Morely examined the object closely. It
was large enough to go on a man's head, he saw. It had adjustable
straps, which could be used to hold it in place, and there were a few
spring-loaded contacts, which apparently were meant to rest against a
wearer's forehead and temples.
A few tiny knobs protruded from one side of the band, and a short wire,
terminated by a miniature plug, depended from the other.
The engineer dipped into his brief case again, to produce a small, flat
case with a long wire leading from it. He put this by the headband, and
connected the plugs.
"The band, sir," he explained, "is to be worn on the head." He pointed
to the flat case. "To save weight in the band, we built a separate power
unit. It can be carried in a pocket. We've tested the unit, sir, and it
does provide a means of private communication with anyone within sight,
or with a group of people. Two people, wearing the headbands, can
communicate for considerable distances, regardless of obstacles."
"I see." Morely picked up the headband. "Do you have more than one of
these?"
"Yes, sir. We made four of the prototypes and tested them thoroughly."
Bond stepped forward. "I sent a report in on them yesterday."
"Yes, yes. I know." Morely waved impatiently. He examined the headband
again. "And you say it provides communication?"
"Yes, sir."
"No chance of interception?"
Bond shook his head. "Well," he admitted, "if two people are in contact,
and a third equipped person wishes to contact either one, he can join
the conversation."
"So, it's easier to tap than a cable circuit, or even a security type
radio circuit." Morely frowned. "Far from a secure means of
communication."
"Well, sir, if anyone cuts in on a communication, both parties know it
immediately."
Morely grunted and shook his head. "Still not secure," he growled. He
looked at the papers on his desk. "Oh, put one on. We'll see how they
work." He leaned back in his chair.
* * * * *
Bond turned to the man with the brief case, who held out another
headband. The sector leader fitted it to his head, plugged in the power
supply and looked around the room. Finally, he glanced at his superior.
A shadow of uncertainty crossed his face, followed by a quickly
suppressed expression of distaste.
Morely watched him. "Well?" he demanded impatiently, "I don't feel or
see anything unusual."
"Of course not, sir," explained Bond smoothly. "You haven't put on the
other headband yet."
"Oh? I thought you could establish communication with only one headset,
so long as you were in the same room."
Bond smiled ingratiatingly. "Only sometimes, sir. Some people are more
susceptible than others."
"I see." Morely looked again at the headband, then set it on his head.
One of the engineers hurried forward to help him with the power pack,
and he looked around the room, becoming conscious of slight sensations
of outside thought. As he glanced at the engineers, he received faint
impressions of anxious interest.
"_Can you receive me, sir?_"
Morely looked at Bond. The younger man was staring at him with an
intense expression on his face. The district leader started to speak,
then remembered and simply thought the words.
"_Of course I can. Didn't you expect results?_"
"_Oh, certainly, sir. Do you want me to go outside for a further test?_"
The headband was bothering Morely a little. Unwanted impressions seemed
to be hovering about, uncomfortably outside the range of recognition. He
took the device off and looked at it again.
"No," he said aloud. "It won't be necessary. It's obvious to me that
this thing will never be any good for practical application in any
community communications problem. It's too vague. But it'll make an
interesting toy, I suppose. Some people might like it as a novelty, and
it'll give them some incentive to do extra work in order to own one.
That's what luxury items are for. And the district can use any royalty
funds it may generate."
He laid the headband on his desk. "Go ahead and produce a few samples.
Offer the designs to Graham's employer. He can offer them on the luxury
market, if he wishes, and we'll see what they do. If people want them,
it might be profitable, both for the district and for Consolidated." He
shrugged.
"No telling what'll make people spend their credits." He started to nod
a dismissal, then hesitated.
"Oh, yes. I think I'll keep this one," he added. "And you might leave a
couple more. The regional director might be amused by them."
He accepted the two headbands and their power packs, put them in a desk
drawer, and sat back to watch the three men leave the office.
* * * * *
After the door closed, he still sat, idly staring at the headband on his
desk. He put it on his head again, then sat, looking about the room.
There was no unusual effect, and he took the band off again, looked at
it sourly, and laid it down.
Somehow, when Bond and those other two had been in the room, he had
sensed a vague feeling of expectancy. Those three had seemed to be
enthusiastic and hopeful about something, he was sure. But he failed to
see what. This headband certainly showed him nothing.
He stared at the band for a while longer, then put it back on and
punched the call button on his desk. As his clerk came into sight, he
watched the man closely. There _was_ a slight effect. He could sense a
vague fear. And a little, gnawing hatred. But nothing was definite, and
no details of thought came through. He shrugged.
Of course the man was fearful. He probably was reviewing his recent
mistakes, wondering which one he might be called upon to explain. Too
bad his mind wasn't clear enough to read. But what could you expect?
Possibly, he could drive Research into improving the device later.
"Anyway," he told himself, "everyone has something they're afraid of.
It's natural. And everyone has their pet hates, too." For an instant, he
thought of Harwood.
He focused his mind on a single thought. "_Get me the quarters file for
Sector Nine._"
There was a definite effect this time. There was a sharp radiation of
pained surprise. Then, there was acquiescence. The clerk started to say
something, then backed toward the door. The impression of fear
intensified. Morely smiled sardonically. The thing was an amusing toy,
at that. He might find uses for it.
He sat back, thinking. He could use it as a detector. Coupled with
shrewd reasoning, well-directed questions, and his own accurate
knowledge of human failings, it could tell him a great deal about his
people and their activities.
For instance, a question about some suspicious circumstance would cause
a twinge of fear from the erring person. And that could be detected and
localized. Further questions would produce alternate feelings of relief
and intensified fear. He nodded complacently. Very little had ever
gotten by him, he thought. But from now on, no error would remain
undiscovered or unpunished.
The clerk returned to place the file drawers convenient to his
superior's desk. He hesitated a moment, his eyes on the headband, then
picked up the completed papers from the desk and went out.
Morely riffled through the cards, idly checked a few against his notes,
and leaned back again. The file section seemed to be operating smoothly.
He looked at his desk. Everything that had to be done immediately was
done. And the morning was hardly more than half over.
He rose to his feet. Surely, somewhere in the headquarters, there must
be some sort of trouble spot. Somewhere, someone was not producing to
the fullest possible. There must be some loose end. And he'd find it. He
went out, jerking a thumb back at his office as he passed his clerk's
desk.
"You can pick up those files again, Roberts. And see to it that my
office gets cleaned up a little. I won't be back for a while."
He went out, to walk down the corridor to the snack bar.
* * * * *
There were a few girls there. He walked by their table, glancing at
their badges. Communications people. He nodded to himself, ordered
coffee, and chose a table.
As he glanced at the girls' table, he could detect a current of
uneasiness. They'd probably been fooling away more time than they
should. Too bad he couldn't get more definite information from their
thoughts. Like to know just how long they had been there. He tilted his
wrist, taking a long look at his watch. The current of uneasiness
increased. No doubt to it, they'd been more than ten minutes already.
The girls hurriedly finished their coffee and left. Morely sipped at his
own cup.
At last, he got up and went out. Might be a good idea to visit the Fixed
Communications Section. Looked as though there might be a little laxity
there.
As he walked down the corridor, he mentally reviewed the operation of
communications. There was Fixed Communications, responsible for
communicator service to all the offices and quarters in the district, as
well as to the various commercial organizations. There were also Mobile
Comm, Warning, Long Lines, and Administrative Radio.
Of these, the largest was Fixed Communications, with its dial
equipment, its banks of video amplifiers, the network of cables, and the
substation equipment. It would take days to thoroughly check all their
activities. But the office was the key to the entire operation. He could
check their records, and get a clue to their efficiency. And he could
question the section chief.
He took the elevator to the communications level and walked slowly along
the hallway, glancing at the heavy steel door leading to Warning as he
passed it. That could be checked later, though there would be little
point to it.
It had always annoyed him to think of the operators in that section.
They simply sat around, doing nothing but watch their screens and keep
their few, piddling records. They did nothing productive, but they had
to be retained. Actually, he had to admit, they were a necessity under
present conditions. War was always a possibility and the enemy was
building up his potential. He might strike at any time, and he'd
certainly not send advance notification. If he did strike, the warning
teams would perform their brief mission, alerting the active, working
members of the defense groups. Then, they would be available for
defense. And the defense coördinators required warning teams and
equipment in prescribed districts. His was one of these.
He grumbled to himself. Even the number of operators and their
organization were prescribed. This was a section, right within his own
district, where he had little authority. And it was irritating. Drones,
that's what they were.
He continued to the Fixed Communications office. Here, at least, he had
authority.
He walked through the door, casting a quick glance at the office as he
entered. The section chief got up from his chair, and came forward.
Morely felt a little glow of satisfaction as he detected the now
familiar aura of uneasiness. Again, he wished this device he wore were
more effective. He would like to know the details of this man's
thoughts.
* * * * *
"Good morning, sir." The Fixed Communication chief saluted.
Morely returned the salute perfunctorily, then examined the man
critically.
"Morning," he acknowledged. "Kirk, I want you to get some new uniforms.
You look like a rag bag."
A little anger was added to the uneasiness. Kirk looked down at his
clothing. It wasn't new, but there was actually little wrong, other than
the slight smudge on a trouser leg, and a few, small spots of dullness
on his highly polished boots.
"I've been inspecting some cable vaults, sir," he explained. "We had a
little trouble, due to ground seepage."
"It makes no difference," the district leader snorted, "what you've been
doing. A man in your position should be properly attired at all times."
He paused, looking Kirk over minutely. "If your cable vaults are in
such bad condition, get them cleaned up. When I look your installations
over, I shall expect them to be clean. Clean, and in order."
He looked beyond Kirk. "And get that desk cleared. A competent man works
on one thing at a time and keeps his work in order. A place for
everything, and everything in its place, you know. You don't need all
that clutter. Is the rest of your office as disorderly as this?"
He looked disparagingly about the small room, then turned toward the
door to the main communications office. Kirk moved to open the door.
At one side of the large office was a battery of file cabinets. Four
desks were arranged conveniently to them. Morely looked at this
arrangement.
"What's this?"
"Billing and Directory, sir. These are the master files of all fixed
communication subscribers. From them, we make up the semiannual
directory, its corrective supplements, and the monthly bills."
Morely frowned at the desks and files, then looked at the clerks, who
were bent over their desks. As one of the girls straightened
momentarily, he recognized her. He'd seen her earlier, in the snack bar.
He looked more closely at her desk. She had reason, he thought for that
radiation of uncertain fear he could sense.
"What's in those files?" he demanded.
"It's a complete index to all subscribers, sir." Kirk looked a little
surprised. Morely recognized that the man thought the question a little
foolish. He cleared his throat growlingly.
"Let's see one of those cards."
Kirk walked to the file, pulled a small envelope at random, and held it
out. The district leader examined it.
"Hah!" he snorted. "I thought so. Duplication of effort. This has
nothing on it that isn't in my quarters and locator files."
"There's billing information on the back, sir," Kirk, pointed out. "And
current charge slips are kept in the envelope. We use these to prepare
the subscriber bills, as well as to maintain the directory service. It's
a convenience file, to speed up our work."
Morely turned the envelope over in his hands. "Oh, yes." He opened the
envelope, to look at the slips inside. "How do you get the information
for these?"
"The charge slips come from Long Lines, sir." Kirk paused. "We get
billing information for basic billing from the counters in the dial
machine. The other information comes from installation reports and from
the quarters file section and the locator files."
* * * * *
Morely handed the envelope back.
"I can see, Kirk," he said, "that you've built up a whole subsection of
unnecessary people here." He stepped over to the file cabinets, examined
their indices, then pulled a drawer open. He pulled his notebook out,
consulted its entries, and searched out an envelope. For a moment, he
compared it with the notebook. Then, he turned, holding out the
envelope.
[Illustration]
"And you don't even keep your information current," he accused. "This
man was transferred yesterday afternoon, to another sector. You still
show him at his old quarters, with his old communicator code."
"We haven't that information from Files yet, sir," protested Kirk. "They
send us a consolidated list of changes daily, but it generally doesn't
come in till thirteen hundred."
Morely dropped the envelope on one of the desks.
"Quarters Files can handle this entire operation," he declared, "with a
little help from Fiscal. And they can handle it far better than your
people here." He stopped for a moment, thinking, then continued.
"Certainly," he decided, "Fiscal can take care of your billing. They
handle the funds anyway, in the final analysis. And you can coördinate
your directory work with the chief clerk at Files. You've got excess
people here, Kirk. We don't need any of them."
He looked at the desks and felt a wave of consternation. Kirk spread his
hands.
"But we have the information we need close at hand, sir. Our directory
has been coming out on time, and in accurate condition. And our billing
is well organized. The directory and billing are my respons--"
Morely waved a hand, then tapped himself on the chest with a long
forefinger. "The entire operation of this headquarters is my
responsibility, Kirk," he said positively, "and mine alone. And I mean
to take care of it. You're responsible to me that Fixed Communications
are kept in order, and I don't mean to relieve you of a bit of that
responsibility. But I won't have you making jobs and wasting funds on
excess personnel." He snorted. "Convenience files are all right. But
they're meant to save work, not make it."
Kirk shook his head. "A decentralization will make it difficult," he
began.
Again, Morely cut him off. "Don't start telling me why you can't do
something," he snapped. "Work out a way you _can_ do it. Make up plans
for transferring this filing function to Quarters Files, and work up a
plan for transferring your billing to Fiscal. That's their business, and
they know how to handle it. Submit your study to me this afternoon." He
looked around the office again.
"The people in Files and Fiscal can handle this workload without adding
a single person. And they will. You're using four clerks to swing it.
Kirk, I want this organization to run efficiently, and excess personnel
don't lead to economic operation." He stared at the section chief.
"Give these four people their notices today, and I'll expect some
suggestions from you as to further streamlining of your section within
the next two days. And be sure they're sound suggestions, which result
in personnel savings. Otherwise, I'll be looking for a new section chief
up here."
For a few seconds, he stood, enjoying the waves of consternation and
futile anger which beat about him. Almost, he could pick up some of the
despairing thoughts in detail. The clerks, of course, were second-class
citizens. And without employment, they'd soon lose their luxury
privileges. Unless they were fortunate enough to find other employment
very soon, they'd have to move to subsistence quarters, and learn to do
without all but the most meagre of food, clothing, and shelter. When
they did get employment again, they'd appreciate it. He looked
majestically around the office once more, then turned and strode away.
He went through the corridor to the elevator, and stepped in, smiling
contentedly. The morning hadn't been entirely wasted.
As he got out of the elevator on executive level, he glanced at his
watch. It wasn't quite time for lunch, but there would be little point
in spending the few remaining minutes in his office. He walked slowly
toward the executive cafeteria.
* * * * *
After lunch, he returned to his office. A few matters awaited his
examination and decision, and he busied himself for a short time,
disposing of them. He paused over the last.
It was a request from Kirk for more cable construction. The
justification showed figures which indicated an increase in executive
type communications during the past few months. This, coupled with new
quarters construction, necessitated additions to the cable trunks from
the main exchange. There was added a short survey of necessary repair to
existing cable facilities.
Morely leaned back. If he approved the request, he would be helping Kirk
increase his section. On the other hand, if he disapproved it, and the
communicator lines became congested, he might find himself open to
criticism later. Some of his satisfaction evaporated. He looked sourly
at the paper.
Suddenly, he thought of Bond's new project. The man had claimed this
device could serve as a communication means between its wearers, and had
demonstrated that his claim had some truth. After noting the slight
fatigue the device seemed to cause in this application, and the
vagueness of the device's operation, Morely had disregarded the claim.
But junior executives could put up with a little fatigue and
inconvenience. And he could see that they did. It might even cut down
the time they were always wasting, talking with one another. He rubbed
his chin with one hand.
"Well," he told himself, "let's see how it works."
From the way Bond had acted in his office, the sector leader might be
still wearing his headband. In fact, he probably was. Morely
concentrated on the man, then concentrated on a single, peremptory
thought.
"_Bond! Can you receive me?_"