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Meeting of the Board By: Alan Edward Nourse (1928-1992) |
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This etext was produced from The Counterfeit Man More Science
Fiction Stories by Alan E. Nourse published in 1963. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on
this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical
errors have been corrected without note.
Meeting
of the
Board
It was going to be a bad day. As he pushed his way nervously through the
crowds toward the Exit Strip, Walter Towne turned the dismal prospect
over and over in his mind. The potential gloominess of this particular
day had descended upon him the instant the morning buzzer had gone off,
making it even more tempting than usual just to roll over and forget
about it all. Twenty minutes later, the water douse came to drag him,
drenched and gurgling, back to the cruel cold world. He had wolfed down
his morning Koffee Kup with one eye on the clock and one eye on his
growing sense of impending crisis. And now, to make things just a trifle
worse, he was going to be late again. He struggled doggedly across the rumbling Exit strip toward the plant
entrance. After all, he told himself, why should he be so upset? He
was Vice President in Charge of Production of the Robling Titanium
Corporation. What could they do to him, really? He had rehearsed his
part many times, squaring his thin shoulders, looking the union boss
straight in the eye and saying, "Now, see here, Torkleson " But he
knew, when the showdown came, that he wouldn't say any such thing. And
this was the morning that the showdown would come. Oh, not because of the lateness . Of course Bailey, the shop steward,
would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But this seemed hardly
worthy of concern this morning. The reports waiting on his desk were
what worried him. The sales reports. The promotion draw reports. The
royalty reports. The anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his head
wearily. The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even
infuriating, but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter. He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves, and tried
vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept scooting his tie up
under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he started up the Robling
corridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps he would be fortunate. Maybe the
reports would be late. Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail to
synapse this morning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as he
was dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way to work. He
walked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancing in at the groups of
men, arguing politics and checking the stock market reports before they
changed from their neat gray business suits to their welding dungarees.
Running up the stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the
door to punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could be sick Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming with
frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows of cubbyholes. In the
middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black and yellow checkered
tattersall, smoking a large cigar. His feet were planted on his desk
top, but he hadn't started on his morning Western yet. He was busy
glaring, first at the clock, then at Walter. "Late again, I see," the shop steward growled. Walter gulped. "Yes, sir. Just four minutes, this time, sir. You know
those crowded strips " "So it's just four minutes now, eh?" Bailey's feet came down with a
crash. "After last month's fine production record, you think four
minutes doesn't matter, eh? Think just because you're a vice president
it's all right to mosey in here whenever you feel like it." He glowered.
"Well, this is three times this month you've been late, Towne. That's a
demerit for each time, and you know what that means." "You wouldn't count four minutes as a whole demerit!" Bailey grinned. "Wouldn't I, now! You just add up your pay envelope on
Friday. Ten cents an hour off for each demerit... Continue reading book >>
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Genres for this book |
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Fiction |
Literature |
Satire |
Science |
Short stories |
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