For about an hour, he poked around the newly assembled apparatus, checking the wiring, and peering into it. When he returned to the temporary office, the oral testing was still going on; Koffler was still on duty as watcher for the union, but the sport had evidently palled on him, for he was now studying a comic book.
Melroy left the reactor area and returned to the office in the converted area. During the midafternoon, somebody named Leighton called him from the Atomic Power Authority executive office, wanting to know what was the trouble between him and the I.F.A.W. and saying that a protest against his alleged high-handed and arbitrary conduct had been received from the union.
Melroy explained, at length. He finished: “You people have twenty Stuart tanks, and a couple of thousand soldiers and cops and undercover-men, here, guarding against sabotage. Don’t you realize that a workman who makes stupid or careless or impulsive mistakes is just as dangerous to the plant as any saboteur? If somebody shoots you through the head, it doesn’t matter whether he planned to murder you for a year or just didn’t know the gun was loaded; you’re as dead one way as the other. I should think you’d thank me for trying to eliminate a serious source of danger.”
“Now, don’t misunderstand my position, Mr. Melroy,” the other man hastened to say. “I sympathize with your attitude, entirely. But these people are going to make trouble.”
“If they do, it’ll be my trouble. I’m under contract to install this cybernetic system for you; you aren’t responsible for my labor policy,” Melroy replied. “Oh, have you had much to do with this man Crandall, yourself?”
“Have I had—!” Leighton sputtered for a moment. “I’m in charge of personnel, here; that makes me his top-priority target, all the time.”
“Well, what sort of a character is he, anyhow? When I contracted with the I.F.A.W., my lawyer and their lawyer handled everything; I never even met him.”
“Well—He has his job to do, the same as I have,” Leighton said. “He does it conscientiously. But it’s like this—anything a workman tells him is the truth, and anything an employer tells him is a dirty lie. Until proven differently, of course, but that takes a lot of doing. And he goes off half-cocked a lot of times. He doesn’t stop to analyze situations very closely.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Well, you tell him you don’t have any control over my labor relations. Tell him to bring his gripes to me.”
At sixteen-thirty, Doris Rives came in, finding him still at his desk.
“I have the written tests all finished, and I have about twenty of the tests and interviews completed,” she said. “I’ll have to evaluate the results, though. I wonder if there’s a vacant desk around here, anywhere, and a record player.”
“Yes, sure. Ask Joan to fix you up; she’ll find a place for you to work. And if you’re going to be working late, I’ll order some dinner for you from the cafeteria. I’m going to be here all evening, myself.”
Sid Keating came in, a short while later, peeling out of his overcoat, jacket and shoulder holster.
“I don’t think they got everything out of that reactor,” he said. “Radioactivity’s still almost active-normal—about eight hundred rem’s—and the temperature’s away up, too. That isn’t lingering radiation; that’s prompt radiation.”
“Radioactivity hasn’t dropped since morning; I’d think so, too,” Melroy said. “What are they getting on the breakdown counter?”
“Mostly neutrons and alpha-particles. I talked to Fred Hausinger, the maintenance boss; he doesn’t like it, either.”
“Well, I’m no nuclear physicist,” Melroy disclaimed, “but all that alpha stuff looks like a big chunk of Pu-239 left inside. What’s Fred doing about it?”
“Oh, poking around inside the reactor with telemetered scanners and remote-control equipment. When I left, he had a gang pulling out graphite blocks with RC-tongs. We probably won’t get a chance to work on it much before thirteen-hundred tomorrow.” He unzipped a bulky briefcase he had brought in under his arm and dumped papers onto his desk. “I still have this stuff to get straightened out, too.”
“Had anything to eat? Then call the cafeteria and have them send up three dinners. Dr. Rives is eating here, too. Find out what she wants; I want pork chops.”
“Uh-huh; Li’l Abner Melroy; po’k chops unless otherwise specified.” Keating got up and went out into the middle office. As he opened the door. Melroy could hear a recording of somebody being given a word-association test.
Half an hour later, when the food arrived, they spread their table on a relatively clear desk in the middle office. Doris Rives had finished evaluating the completed tests; after dinner, she intended going over the written portions of the uncompleted tests.
“How’d the finished tests come out?” Melroy asked her.
“Better than I’d expected. Only two washouts,” she replied. “Harvey Burris and Julius Koffler.”
“Oh, no!” Keating wailed. “The I.F.A.W. steward, and the loudest-mouthed I-know-my-rights boy on the job!”
“Well, wasn’t that to be expected?” Melroy asked. “If you’d seen the act those two put on—”
“They’re both inherently stupid, infantile, and deficient in reasoning ability and judgment,” Doris said. “Koffler is a typical adolescent problem-child show-off type, and Burris is an almost perfect twelve-year-old schoolyard bully. They both have inferiority complexes long enough to step on. If the purpose of this test is what I’m led to believe it is, I can’t, in professional good conscience, recommend anything but that you get rid of both of them.”
“What Bob’s getting at is that they’re the very ones who can claim, with the best show of plausibility, that the test is just a pretext to fire them for union activities,” Melroy explained. “And the worst of it is, they’re the only ones.”
“Maybe we can scrub out a couple more on the written tests alone. Then they’ll have company,” Keating suggested.
“No, I can’t do that.” Doris was firm on the point. “The written part of the test was solely for ability to reason logically. Just among the three of us,
