"If you like." The Labor man shrugged. "Seems like employers just can't
find men interested in their jobs. But the Martians go merrily along,
using their three hands at maximum efficiency. And it's not just in
manual labor that they're gaining tremendous amounts of ground."
"How do you mean?"
Woolsey paused by the flowing fountain, watching the cool gusher leap
from the mouth of a stone fish.
"Well," he said vaguely, "they're taking over other kinds of work.
White collar stuff. Teaching. Architecture. In fact, I hear that the
Brooklyn Dodgers are considering a Martian for third base--"
"No!"
Woolsey said: "Water looks nice, doesn't it? I wonder if they would
mind if I took my shoes off and--"
"Mr. Woolsey!"
"Oh, just for a minute, you know. Can't see any harm in it. Matter of
fact, should be quite refreshing."
"Yes, but, sir--"
"Oh, come now," said Woolsey, starting to unlace his shoes. "If you'd
rather work, go ahead. I want to relax." He took his shoes off and
began to work on the socks, humming the strains of _Melancholy_ to
himself.
The reporter scratched his head. "I _don't_ want to work," he
confessed. "I haven't wanted to work for months. The whole idea of
working just makes me sore."
He hesitated a moment, and then reached down for his shoe-laces.
* * * * *
The Martian stood in front of the boss's desk, but this time, there was
no nervousness in his manner.
"Chafnu--" said Huber.
"Yes, sir?" said the new foreman.
"Chafnu, I have something to tell you. And I don't know how you're
going to take it."
"Please?" said Chafnu.
Huber got up and went to the table. There was a leather suitcase
perched on top. He took it off and placed it on his desk; then he
opened it. He reached over and took Diana's photograph from the blotter
and put it inside.
"You've been doing a good job," the boss continued. "An excellent job,
as a matter of fact."
"Properly thanking," said Chafnu.
"I don't want you to thank me. It's only logical, after all. Especially
when we put nothing but Martians in your shop. We needed a Martian
foreman then."
He went to the bookcase, lifted out two of the books, and dropped them
into the suitcase.
"Now things have changed again, Chafnu. Changed drastically. And the
Oxygen Corporation of America is going to need your help."
"Desirable of service," said Chafnu. "Very willing of it."
"I know you are. And that's why the Board of Directors have decided
that you should take over the whole show." He clicked the suitcase shut
with an air of finality.
"Uncomprehend," said the Martian blankly.
"We're an all-Martian plant now," Huber said. "Even the front office
will soon be all-Martian. The stockholders figure that the only
reasonable thing to do is put a Martian in charge of everything. You
were my recommendation, and the Board accepted it."
"But strange. You work job, do not?"
"If you mean it's my job, the answer is no. It's not my job any more.
Oh, don't feel sorry for me. I _want_ to quit. I just haven't been
pulling my weight around here for the last year. I'm getting lazy or
something, Chafnu. The whole idea of working bores me silly."
Huber went over to the musaphone and turned it on.
"_Melancholy_," he said, as the haunting phrases emerged from the
loudspeaker. "That's the way I feel about working. You know something,
Chafnu? Sometimes I think that damned tune has something to do with
it!"
"Sir?"
"Oh, I know it sounds crazy. But somehow, the way I feel about working
and the way that tune sounds--they're all mixed up in my mind. Oh,
well." The boss picked up his suitcase. "The job's yours, Chafnu. So's
the office. Both of 'em aren't the greatest in the world, but I had
some fun."
He stuck out his hand. "Good luck," he said.
"Cannot," said Chafnu.
"What?"
"Impossible for acceptance," said the Martian.
"But why?" said Huber. "You know you can handle it."
"Confidence great and very," said the Martian. "But reason is not for
acceptance. Plentiful job for Martians."
"I don't get you."
"Declined offer responsible to plan change, understand. Quitting from
factory do Chafnu. Otherwise business."
"You mean you're leaving the factory? You're going to take another
job?" Huber looked befuddled.
"Excitement offer," said the Martian. "Great salary remuneration.
Opportunity."
"Well, I'll be damned." Huber grinned and slapped Chafnu lightly on his
sensitive back. "I guess you know what you're doing, Chafnu. Plenty of
opportunities for a Martian these days--especially since humans don't
seem to want to work."
"Situation so," said Chafnu.
"Okay, then," said Huber. "Whatever you have in mind, Chafnu, I hope
you make a go of it. Good luck, old pal!"
"Friendship," said Chafnu warmly, clasping Huber's hand in his three
and shaking it enthusiastically.
* * * * *
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