"Stockpiled you! How much did they pay you?"
"Not very much, but we were getting the training instead of wages."
"Did that come out of the pamphlets they gave you?"
"Did what come out--"
"That guff about receiving training instead of wages!" said Lexington.
"Any company that really wants bright trainees will compete for them
with money--cold, hard cash, not platitudes. Maybe you saw a few of
their products being made, maybe you didn't. But you're a lot weaker in
calculus than when you left school, and in a dozen other subjects too,
aren't you?"
"Well, nothing we did on the course involved higher mathematics," Peter
admitted cautiously, "and I suppose I could use a refresher course in
calculus."
"Just as I said--they stockpiled you, instead of using you as an
engineer. They hired you at a cut wage and taught you things that would
be useful only in their own company, while in the meantime you were
getting weaker in the subjects you'd paid to learn. Or are you one of
these birds that had the shot paid for him?"
"I worked my way through," said Peter stiffly.
"If you'd stayed with them five years, do you think you'd be able to
get a job with someone else?"
Peter considered his answer carefully. Every man the Association had
sent had been turned away. That meant bluffs didn't work. Neither, he'd
seen for himself, did allowing himself to be intimidated.
"I hadn't thought about it," he said. "I suppose it wouldn't have been
easy."
"Impossible, you mean. You wouldn't know a single thing except their
procedures, their catalogue numbers, their way of doing things. And
you'd have forgotten so much of your engineering training, you'd be
scared to take on an engineer's job, for fear you'd be asked to do
something you'd forgotten how to do. At that point, they could take you
out of the stockpile, put you in just about any job they wanted, at
any wage you'd stand for, and they'd have an indentured worker with a
degree--but not the price tag. You see that now?"
* * * * *
It made Peter feel he had been suckered, but he had decided to play
this straight all the way. He nodded.
"Why'd you leave?" Lexington pursued, unrelenting.
"I finished the course and the increase they offered on a permanent
basis wasn't enough, so I went elsewhere--"
"With your head full of this nonsense about a shortage of engineers."
Peter swallowed. "I thought it would be easier to get a job than it has
been, yes."
"They start the talk about a shortage and then they keep it going. Why?
So youngsters will take up engineering thinking they'll wind up among a
highly paid minority. You did, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"And so did all the others there with you, at school and in this
stockpiling outfit?"
"That's right."
"Well," said Lexington unexpectedly, "there _is_ a shortage! And the
stockpiles are the ones who made it, and who keep it going! And the
hell of it is that they can't stop--when one does it, they all have
to, or their costs get out of line and they can't compete. What's the
solution?"
"I don't know," Peter said.
Lexington leaned back. "That's quite a lot of admissions you've made.
What makes you think you're qualified for the job I'm offering?"
"You said you wanted an engineer."
"And I've just proved you're less of an engineer than when you left
school. I have, haven't I?"
"All right, you have," Peter said angrily.
"And now you're wondering why I don't get somebody fresh out of school.
Right?"
Peter straightened up and met the old man's challenging gaze. "That and
whether you're giving me a hard time just for the hell of it."
"Well, am I?" Lexington demanded.
Looking at him squarely, seeing the intensity of the pain-drawn eyes,
Peter had the startling feeling that Lexington was rooting for him!
"No, you're not."
"Then what am I after?"
"Suppose you tell me."
So suddenly that it was almost like a collapse, the tension went out
of the old man's face and shoulders. He nodded with inexpressible
tiredness. "Good again. The man I want doesn't exist. He has to
be made--the same as I was. You qualify, so far. You've lost your
illusions, but haven't had time yet to replace them with dogma or
cynicism or bitterness. You saw immediately that fake humility
or cockiness wouldn't get you anywhere here, and you were right.
Those were the important things. The background data I got from the
Association on you counted, of course, but only if you were teachable.
I think you are. Am I right?"
"At least I can face knowing how much I don't know," said Peter, "if
that answers the question."
"It does. Partly. What did you notice about this plant?"
In precis form, Peter listed his observations: the absence of windows
at sides and rear, the unusual amount of power, the automatic doors,
the lack of employees' entrances.
"Very good," said Lexington. "Most people only notice the automatic
doors. Anything else?"
"Yes," Peter said. "You're the only person I've seen in the building."
"I'm the only one there is."
Peter stared his disbelief. Automated plants were nothing new, but
they all had their limitations. Either they dealt with exactly similar
products or things that could be handled on a flow basis, like oil or
water-soluble chemicals. Even these had no more to do than process the
goods.
"Come on," said Lexington, getting massively to his feet. "I'll show
you."
* * * * *
The office door opened, and Peter found himself being led down the
antiseptic corridor to another door which had opened, giving access to
the manufacturing area. As they moved along, between rows of seemingly
disorganized machinery, Peter noticed that the factory lights high
overhead followed their progress, turning themselves on in advance
of their coming, and going out after they had passed, keeping a pool
of illumination only in the immediate area they occupied. Soon they
reached a large door which Peter recognized as the inside of the truck
loading door he had seen from outside.
Lexington paused here. "This is the bay used by the trucks arriving
with raw materials," he said. "They back up to this door, and a set
of automatic jacks outside lines up the trailer body with the door
exactly. Then the door opens and the truck is unloaded by these
materials handling machines."
Peter didn't see him touch anything, but as he spoke, three glistening
machines, apparently self-powered, rolled noiselessly up to the door in
formation and stopped there, apparently waiting to be inspected.
They gave Peter the creeps. Simple square boxes, set on casters, with
two arms each mounted on the sides might have looked similar. The arms,
fashioned much like human arms, hung at the sides, not limply, but in a
relaxed position that somehow indicated readiness.
Lexington went over to one of them and patted it lovingly. "Really,
these machines are only an extension of one large machine. The whole
plant, as a matter of fact, is controlled from one point and is really
a single unit. These materials handlers, or manipulators, were about
the toughest things in the place to design. But they're tremendously
useful. You'll see a lot of them around."
Lexington was about to leave the side of the machine when abruptly one
of the arms rose to the handkerchief in his breast pocket and daintily
tugged it into a more attractive position. It took only a split second,
and before Lexington could react, all three machines were moving away
to attend to mysterious duties of their own.
Peter tore his eyes away from them in time to see the look of
frustrated embarrassment that crossed Lexington's face, only to be
replaced by one of anger. He said nothing, however, and led Peter to
a large bay where racks of steel plate, bar forms, nuts, bolts, and
other materials were stored.
"After unloading a truck, the machines check the shipment, report any
shortages or overages, and store the materials here," he said, the
trace of anger not yet gone from his voice. "When an order is received,
it's translated into the catalogue numbers used internally within the
plant, and machines like the ones you just saw withdraw the necessary
materials from stock, make the component parts, assemble them, and
package the finished goods for shipment. Simultaneously, an order is
sent to the billing section to bill the customer, and an order is
sent to our trucker to come and pick the shipment up. Meanwhile, if
the withdrawal of the materials required has depleted our stock, the
purchasing section is instructed to order more raw materials. I'll take
you through the manufacturing and assembly sections right now, but
they're too noisy for me to explain what's going on while we're there."
* * * * *
Peter followed numbly as Lexington led him through a maze of machines,
each one seemingly intent on cutting, bending, welding, grinding
or carrying some bit of metal, or just standing idle, waiting for
something to do. The two-armed manipulators Peter had just seen were
everywhere, scuttling from machine to machine, apparently with an
exact knowledge of what they were doing and the most efficient way of
doing it.
He wondered what would happen if one of them tried to use the same
aisle they were using. He pictured a futile attempt to escape the
onrushing wheels, saw himself clambering out of the path of the
speeding vehicle just in time to fall into the jaws of the punch press
that was laboring beside him at the moment. Nervously, he looked for an
exit, but his apprehension was unnecessary. The machines seemed to know
where they were and avoided the two men, or stopped to wait for them to
go by.
Back in the office section of the building, Lexington indicated a small
room where a typewriter could be heard clattering away. "Standard
business machines, operated by the central control mechanism. In
that room," he said, as the door swung open and Peter saw that the
typewriter was actually a sort of teletype, with no one before the
keyboard, "incoming mail is sorted and inquiries are replied to. In
this one over here, purchase orders are prepared, and across the hall
there's a very similar rig set up in conjunction with an automatic
bookkeeper to keep track of the pennies and to bill the customers."
"Then all you do is read the incoming mail and maintain the machinery?"
asked Peter, trying to shake off the feeling of open amazement that
had engulfed him.
"I don't even do those things, except for a few letters that come in
every week that--it doesn't want to deal with by itself."
The shock of what he had just seen was showing plainly on Peter's face
when they walked back into Lexington's office and sat down. Lexington
looked at him for quite a while without saying anything, his face
sagging and pale. Peter didn't trust himself to speak, and let the
silence remain unbroken.