Arthur Zagat - The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume IX

“Never mind.” The little old man waved the Treasurer to his seat with a weary gesture. His face, so much like somebody’s grandmother, looked tragic as he spoke his next words.

“You don’t need the Accountovac to tell you the significance of those figures, gentlemen.” His voice was soft, with a slight quaver. “We are not making much p-r-o-f-i-t. We are losing m-o-n-e-y. And the point is—what’s the reason? There must be some reason.” His eyes went over them again, and Colihan, feeling like the culprit, slumped in his chair.

“I have a suggestion,” said the President. “Just an idea. Maybe some of us just aren’t showing enough p-e-p.”

There was a hushed silence.

The boss pushed back his chair and walked over to a cork-lined wall. With a dramatic gesture, he lifted one arm and pointed to the white sign that covered a fourth of it.

“See that?” he asked. “What does it say?”

The department heads looked dubious.

“Well, what does it say?” repeated Moss.

“ACT!” The department heads cried in chorus.

“Exactly!” said the little old man with a surprising bellow. “ACT! The word that made us a leader. The word that guides our business destiny. The word that built General Products!”

He paced the floor. The chairs in the conference room creaked as the department heads stirred to follow him with their eyes.

“ACT is our motto. ACT is our password. ACT is our key to success. And why not? The Brains do the thinking. All of us put together couldn’t think so effectively, so perfectly, so honestly as the Brains. They take the orders, designate raw materials, equipment, manpower. They schedule our work. They analyze our products. They analyze our people.”

Colihan trembled.

“There’s only one important function left to us. And that’s ACT!”

The President bowed his head and walked slowly back to his seat. He sat down, and with great fatigue evident in his voice, he concluded his polemic.

“That’s why we must have pep, gentlemen. Pep. Now—how do you spell it?”

“P! E! P!” roared the department heads.

The meeting was over. The department heads filed out.

Colihan’s secretary placed the morning mail on his desk. There was a stack of memos at least an inch thick, and the Personnel Manager moaned at the sight of it.

“Production report doesn’t look too good,” said Miss Blanche, crisply. “Bet we get a flood of aptitude cards from Morgan today. Grimswitch has sent over a couple. That makes eleven from him this month. He really has his problems.”

Colihan grunted. He deserves them, he thought.

“How did the meeting go?”

“Huh?” Colihan looked up. “Oh, fine, fine. Boss was in good voice, as usual.”

“I think there’s an envelope from him in the stack.”

“What?” Colihan hoped that his concern wasn’t visible. He riffled through the papers hurriedly, and came up with a neat white envelope engraved with the words: OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT.

Miss Blanche watched him, frankly curious. “That will be all,” he told her curtly.

When she had left, he ripped the envelope open and read the contents. It was in Moss’s own cramped handwriting, and it was a request for a three o’clock “man-to-man” talk.

Oh, Lord, he thought. Now it’s going to happen.

President Moss was eating an apple.

He ate so greedily that the juice spilled over his chin.

Sitting behind his massive oak desk, chair tilted back, apple juice dappling his whiskers, he looked so small and unformidable, that Colihan took heart.

“Well, Ralph—how goes it?”

He called me Ralph, thought Colihan cheerfully. He’s not such a bad old guy.

“Don’t grow apples like they used to,” the President said. “This hydroponic stuff can’t touch the fruit we used to pick. Say, did you ever climb a real apple tree and knock ’em off the branches?”

Colihan blinked. “No, sir.”

“Greatest thrill in the world. My father had an orchard in Kennebunkport. Apples by the million. Green apples. Sweet apples. Delicious. Spy. Baldwin.” He sighed. “Something’s gone out of our way of life, Ralph.”

Why, he’s just an old dear, thought Colihan. He looked at the boss with new sympathy.

“Funny thing about apples. My father used to keep ’em in barrels down in the basement. He used to say to me, ‘Andrew,’ he’d say, ‘don’t never put a sour apple in one of these barrels. ‘Cause just one sour apple can spoil the whole derned lot.’” The boss looked at Colihan and took a big noisy bite.

Colihan smiled inanely. Was Moss making some kind of point?

“Well, we can’t sit around all day and reminisce, eh, Ralph? Much as I enjoy it. But we got a business to run, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” said the Personnel Manager.

“Mighty big business, too. How’s your side of it, Ralph? Old Personnelovac hummin’ along nicely?”

“Yes, sir,” said Colihan, wondering if he should voice his fears about the Brain.

“Marvelous machine, that. Most marvelous of ’em all, if you ask me. Sizes up a man beautifully. And best of all, it’s one hundred percent honest. That’s a mighty important quality, Ralph.”

Colihan was getting worried. The boss’s conversation was just a little too folksy for his liking.

“Yes, sir, a mighty fine quality. My father used to say: ‘Andrew, an honest man can always look you in the eyes.’”

Colihan stared uncomprehendingly. He realized that Moss had stopped talking, so he looked him squarely in the eyes and said: “He must have been a fine man, your father.”

“He was honest,” said Moss. “I’ll say that for him. He was honest as they come. Did you ever hear of Dimaggio?”

“It sounds familiar—”

“It should. Dimaggio was a legendary figure. He took a lantern and went out into the world looking for an honest man. And do you know something? He couldn’t find one. You know, Ralph, sometimes I feel like Dimaggio.”

Colihan gulped.

“And do you know why? Because sometimes I see a thing like this—” the boss’s hand reached into the desk and came out with a thick bundle of pink cards—“and I wonder if there’s an honest man left in the world.”

He put the cards in front of Colihan.

“Now, sir,” said Moss. “Let’s talk a little business. These cards are all pink. That means dismissal, right? That’s twenty-four people fired in the last month, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” said Colihan unhappily.

“And how many cards went through the Personnelovac this month?”

“Forty.”

“So that’s twenty-four out of forty. A batting average of—” The boss’s brow puckered. “Well. Never mind. But that’s quite an unusual record, wouldn’t you say so?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“So unusual that it would call for immediate ACTION, wouldn’t it?” The President’s face was now stormy.

“Yes, sir. But I checked the Brain—”

“Did you, Ralph?”

“Yes, sir. And the Maintainovac said it was perfect. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Nothing wrong? You call twenty-four firings out of forty nothing?” The old man stood up, still holding the core of his apple.

“Well, I don’t understand it either, Mr. Moss.” Colihan felt dew on his forehead. “Nothing seems to satisfy the Brain anymore. It seems to develop higher and higher standards, or something. Why, I’m not sure it wouldn’t even fire—”

“WHO?” said Moss thunderously. “WHO wouldn’t it even fire?”

The thunder hit Colihan squarely. He swallowed hard, and then managed to say: