The Essential Works of Cyril M. Kornbluth. Cyril M. Kornbluth

not really fishing in our lake."

      "Can we get their thorium quota back to A.D.M.P.?" Holland asked.

      "No. I'd be afraid to try it. McGovern's been talking about a bigger quota, to serve notice on me that he's not going to be whittled down. And I live in fear that the Navy will find out about it and demand a thorium allotment of their own. That's why I was so damned secretive about it—the fewer people know about these deals, the better. Maybe we ought to have Raw Materials set up a new group to expedite thorium-ore procurement and refining—but my point was, no; the Air Force has got it and they won't let go. We've got to get along with the military, Dan. You know that. They can make us look awfully bad if they've a mind to."

      "Well," said Holland, "that's that. I'll get you a report you can show Interior by tomorrow morning. Were there any other points for me?"

      "Gentlemen?" asked the chairman, looking around the table. There were no other points, and the general manager left them.

      The third commissioner said: "I'm a little worried about Holland. He seems to be going cynical on us."

      The chairman said: "He's a little stale from overwork. He refuses to take a vacation."

      "Like an embezzler," said the ex-banker, and they laughed.

      "He doesn't see the big picture," said the second commissioner, and they nodded thoughtfully and got up to go their various ways:

      The chairman to weigh the claims of two areas pleading to be the site of the next big A.E.C. plant;

      The first commissioner to polish a magazine article on "Some Lessons of Aquinas for the Atomic Age";

      The second commissioner to lobby three congressmen in connection with the appropriations bill coming up in eight months;

      The third commissioner to confer with the Secretary of State on the line that State's overseas propaganda broadcasts should take concerning A.D.M.P. as proof of America's peace-loving nature.

      * * * * *

      Holland, in the privacy of his office, took four soda-mint tablets and burped luxuriously. He phoned his assistant Weiss, and passed him the job of drafting tomorrow morning's report for the Secretary of the Interior.

      His "While You Were Out" pad said:

      "12:15—Senator Hoyt's office called for an appointment 'as soon as possible.' Said I would call back.

      "12:20—Mr. Wilson Stuart called from Los Angeles and asked you to call back today 'on the private number.'

      "12:45—Senator Hoyt's office called again. Said I would call back.

      "12:48—the Associated Press called asking for an interview at your convenience. I said you were occupied for the coming week and referred them to the P. & T.I. Office.

      "1:15—Senator Hoyt's office called again. Said I would call back."

      He sighed and knocked down an intercom button. "Charlie, tell Hoyt's people he can come right over. Get me Stuart on—no, I'll place it."

      "Yes, Mr. Holland."

      The general manager didn't have a phone on his desk, but he did have one in a drawer. It had a curiously thickened base, the result of some wire-pulling in A.T. & T. The curiously thickened base housed a "scrambler" of the English type which matched one in Wilson Stuart's bedroom phone. It was a fairly effective measure against wire taps. He pulled out the phone and placed the call.

      His old friend must have been waiting by his own phone in the big white Beverly Hills house. "Hello?" said the voice of Wilson Stuart.

      "Hello, Wilson. How is everything?"

      "Let's scramble."

      "All right." Holland pushed a button on the phone. "Can you hear me all right?"

      "I hear you." The quality of the transmission had taken an abrupt drop—the result of Wilson Stuart's voice being torn into shreds by his scrambler, hurled in that unintelligible form across the continent, and reassembled by Holland's device. "Dan, things are going sour out here. They're trying to take Western Air away from me—a nice little phony stockholders' revolt. One of my rats in the Oklahoma Oil crowd tipped me today. I don't know how far they've got in lining up their proxies, but it could be bad."

      "What's the squawk?"

      "I stand accused of running the board of directors like a railroad—which, God knows, I do, and a good thing for Western. Also, and this is the part that scares me, I'm supposed to be squandering the company's resources."

      "Um. It isn't a real rank-and-file thing, is it?"

      "Act your age, Dan! It's the old Bank of California programme: kick Stuart out of Western Air and integrate it with their other holdings. This time they've met Oklahoma Oil's terms."

      "Who's fronting?"

      "That's the only cheerful part. They've got some squirt Air Force two-star general named Reeves. He commands Great Falls A.F.B. in Montana. They've sounded him out and he's supposed to be willing to take over as board chairman after I get the boot. Such patriotism."

      "I can do something about that. Know Austin?"

      "I was thinking of him—he'd put the screws on the fly-boy. Will you get in touch with him?"

      "Sure. Fast."

      "Another thing ... I'll be in a lot stronger position for the showdown if I can pull a big, big A.E.C. contract out of my hat. What have you got?"

      Holland thought for a moment. "Well, Reactor Programme's got some big orders coming up. Die-cast one-inch rods, aluminum cans, and some complicated structural members. It might all come to twenty-five million dollars. You set up for die-casting?"

      "Hell no, but what's the difference? We can subcontract it to anybody who is set up. All I want is the money to show those monkeys on the board."

      "You'll get it. How's Amy?"

      "No complaints. She brought Clifton's widow home. Too bad about that. You never knew the guy, but he used to work for me—a real character."

      "That so? Tell Amy to drop in and say hello next time she's East. I haven't seen her for months."

      "I sure will, Dan. Take care of yourself. And the fly-boy. And the contract. Good-bye."

      Holland hung up and put the phone back in its drawer. He said over his intercom: "Tell Fallon from Reactor Programme Procurement that I want to see him. And get me Undersecretary Austin on the phone—the Air Force Austin."

      The Air Force Austin was only an acquaintance, but he had a low boiling point, and handles that stuck out a yard. There were many things that he hated, and one of them was military men who used their service careers as springboards to high-pay civilian jobs.

      "Naturally I don't want to meddle in your area, Austin," Holland was telling him a minute later, "but we're all working for the same boss. Can you tell me anything about a Major General Reeves—Great Falls A.F.B.?"

      Austin's suspicious New England voice said: "Supposed to be a brilliant young man. I don't know him personally. What about him?"

      "I hear he's getting involved in a big-business crowd. If you want me to stop talking and forget about it, just say so."

      Austin snapped: "Not at all. I'm glad you called me. What exactly did you hear?"

      "The people are supposed to be Oklahoma Oil and Bank of California. The way the story went, they want to hire him as a front for the reorganization of some aircraft company or other."

      "Nothing illegal? No hint of cumshaw?"

      "None whatsoever. Just the usual big-salary bait."

      "Glad of that. Thanks, Holland. If Reeves thinks he can use the Air Force, he's got a great deal to learn. I'll have this investigated very thoroughly. If you're right, he'll be A.F. Liaison officer in Guam before he knows what hit him."

      Holland