ANNOUNCER: Ladies and gentlemen, due to circumstances beyond
our control, the Universal Broadcasting Company interrupts the Joe
Blinker Comedy Hour to bring you a program of recorded mood music.
Our first selection is a popular record on the Canal label, entitled
_Melancholy_.
* * * * *
The chairman rapped his gavel for order.
"One more demonstration like that, and we'll have to clear the room
of spectators," he warned. "This inquiry is a serious matter, and we
cannot permit levity. Now, Mr. Collins, go on with your testimony."
Montague Collins, the 51% owner of the Oxygen Corporation of America,
looked uncomfortable.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I did not mean to be funny. I agree
with the chair that defective equipment is a serious business, and my
reference to the Martians' three hands was meant in earnest."
"We understand. Go ahead, Mr. Collins."
"I was merely stating that, contrary to articles in the public press,
the Martians' efficiency level has been more than maintained at the
Oxco plant. It's the human efficiency level that has declined."
There was an excited buzzing.
"I believe," he continued, mopping his face, "that this fact will be
borne out by the experience of many other manufacturers. And I'd like
to submit in evidence some replies to letters I have sent to executives
all over America. You will see that they corroborate what I have told
you. May I have the Chair's permission to read these replies as part of
my testimony?"
"It does not seem relevant at the moment, Mr. Collins, but they may be
submitted for publication into the record. Please tell us about your
own experience."
"I'm afraid I do not have much to add. As a result of our troubles, we
are increasing the number of Martian employees considerably."
"Just how many is 'considerable,' Mr. Collins?"
Montague Collins cleared his throat.
"We now employ four Martians to every three humans."
Not even the gavel could quiet the spectators this time.
* * * * *
Curly was about to demolish a ham-and-swiss on rye. But when the
Martian moved across his line of vision, he paused and called out:
"Hey, Chafnu!"
The Martian stopped and swiveled his bulbous head around at the
foreman. "Yes?" he said.
"Want a bite of this?" He held up the sandwich.
"No, your thanks," said Chafnu.
"Go on, have a taste. It's good for you."
"Do not think this," said Chafnu, trying to solve the old riddle of how
to produce an engaging smile. He merely succeeded in looking like a
surprised beetle.
"Whatsamatter, Chafnu? Too good to eat with your foreman?" Curly
flushed. The hirings-and-firings of the last two months had unnerved
him, and the fact that he was handling his own job poorly only made the
situation worse.
"Have not required to food," said the Martian. "Best existence of
silicone substances. Understanding do? However, your thanks, and very."
He began to move on, but Curly was obviously in the mood for trouble.
He got up from the bench and put his beefy hand around one of Chafnu's
arms.
"It's pain," said Chafnu mildly. "Improvement if released, your thanks."
"You're a wise guy, Chafnu," said Curly. He knew that he was skirting
a dangerous edge, but he was just too irritated to care. "You're a
bug-eyed bastard. What do you say about that?"
"I have comment inward," the Martian answered, trying to pull away from
the foreman's grip.
"In fact," said Curly, now squeezing harder, "I got a good mind to kick
you right in the seat of the pants. And keep kickin' till you fly right
back to Mars."
"Pain," said Chafnu. "Can release do?"
"And what if I don't?"
"Am in power yours," said the Martian.
"You're goddam right. And I'm going to give you a little lesson in
manners, you--"
"_Curly!_"
Huber came striding over fast, and the look on his face was sufficient
to make the foreman drop both Martian and sandwich.
"Gee, boss, I--"
"Never mind!" Huber thundered. "You had the chance. Now you're getting
your walking papers! Get out of here, Curly! Get out of here now!"
"But Mr. Huber--"
"I said _beat it_! You're not the foreman around here any more. And in
case you want to know who your successor is, take a good look!"
Huber pointed a shaking finger at Chafnu, who bowed his head modestly.
* * * * *
"... and here it is, folks! The big one! The top one! The melody that
swept the Solar System! You've proved that you love it. All the disc
jockey requests, all the record sales, all the juke-box half-dollars
have shown that, once more, for the forty-first week in a row--the
number one tune on your hit parade is--"
"_Melancholy!_"
"But don't get excited, folks! Because I'm _not_ going to play it for
you! I'm going to spin it all for myself--and you can just sit there
and drool! And if anybody wants to fire me for it, let 'em go ahead and
see if I care! Heh, heh, heh--_Ulp!_"
* * * * *
Woolsey, of the U.S. Department of Labor, zipped up his brief case and
went over to the office window.
He looked outside at the Capitol building, but the location permitted
only a fractional view of the impressive edifice. Anyway, the sun was
shining brightly and the grass was green.
The man sitting in the chair facing his desk recalled his presence with
a polite cough.
"Oh," said Woolsey, turning around. "Sorry. Mind's wandering, I guess."
"I know how you feel, Mr. Woolsey. My job is getting me down, too.
Can't seem to get interested in the newspaper any more. Just the
thought of working irritates me."
Woolsey sat down, humming softly to himself. He toyed with a paper
clip, then started to bend it out of shape.
"But I guess I better get the story," sighed the man in the chair.
"Boss will give me hell otherwise. Although," he added, "he seems to
care about working even less than I do."
"Yes," said Woolsey abstractedly. "My, it certainly is a nice day. Damn
shame to be indoors on a day like this."
"What say we go for a walk?" asked the reporter. "We can take a stroll
around the fountain. We can do our business just as well."
"Splendid idea!" said Woolsey. "This place is getting on my nerves."
Outside, the Assistant Labor Secretary said:
"Oh, it's true, all right. The Martian labor force now outnumbers the
humans by five to one. Some companies have completely converted to
Martians--like the Oxco Corporation, for instance. In fact, it probably
won't be very long before we'll have an all-Martian labor force across
the country."