jogged on and on, red-faced, nervous, tongue hanging out-jogged along like a hound dog with a threshing crew. I wanted to spit through their windows, or grab up a handful of rocks and stone them. Most of all I wanted to be some place else. Where it was quiet and there were no people.
Of course I knew why I wasn't asked to ride. No car could very well stop in that traffic. The cars behind would push it ahead, even with the brakes on and the motor off. And practically all of them were loaded; and they couldn't let me ride on the running board because there is a severely enforced ordinance against that.
Nevertheless, I hated them. Almost as much as I did myself.
I reached the plant just as the five-minute whistle was blowing. Actually, you're supposed to be inside, standing ready at your station when the five-minute blows; but there were hundreds besides myself who weren't. I fell into line in front of the gate that held my clock number. I was weak but I felt better. The sweating had done me good.
There was a steady snapping of metal and rustling of paper as the gate guards examined each man's lunch. One man, a new one doubtless, had his lunch wrapped in a newspaper. The line was held up while the guard untied the strings and unwrapped it.
When I reached the guard in our line, he glanced at my badge and pass. Then, holding the pass in his hand, he plucked the badge from my jacket and gave me a shove through the other lines.
"Over there. Chief's desk."
I didn't ask why. I thought I knew. For a moment it was in my mind to run. Then I thought, Well, if they really want me they'll get me. So I stood at the desk until the chief in his military cap and Sam Browne belt looked up. His face was fat and cold; his eyes shrewd.
"What number?"
"Huh?"
"Number, number. What's your clock number?"
"Oh." I told him what it was.
He reached into a drawer and pulled out another badge and a yellow isinglass enclosed card. It bore the picture they had taken of me the day before, my name, age, and a detailed physical description.
"This is your permanent badge, and number. Punch it hereafter. This is your identification card. Don't lose, lend, or forget either one. You'll need them to get through the gate and while you're inside. If you leave them at home, it'll cost you fifty cents for us to send a messenger after them. If you lose them, it will be a dollar. Understand? All right. Good luck."
I punched in, and walked through the crowded yard to the plant entrance… Relieved? That's not the right word. Maybe I'll tell you why some time.
The stockroom gate was locked, as usual. I could see Moon and Busken and Vail up in the Purchased-Parts section talking, but evidently they didn't see me. Gross, the bookkeeper, was on his stool, absorbedly manicuring his fingernails. I walked around to the window.
"How about letting me in?" I said.
He looked up. He is a handsome fellow, with his well-shaped head, dark eyes and hair, but so ruggedly built that he appears awkward. He was dressed impeccably in a doeskin jacket and brown whipcord pants.
"Crawl through the window," he suggested, pleasantly enough.
"How about the sign that says not to?"
"That don't mean anything. I crawl through all the time."
I scrambled through just as the seven-o'clock whistle was blowing, and bumped into Moon as I swung my feet to the floor.
"I wouldn't do that any more if I were you," he said. "There's a rule against it."
I looked at Gross. He was uncovering his typewriter, his back turned toward us.
"All right," I said. "What would you like to have me do today?"
"Get these parts off the floor the first thing."
"What-"
But he had turned away. Moon is something over six feet tall, very dark, and so thin that he seems to float rather than walk.
There was a short squat young man who looked like a Mexican moving around in the paper-carpeted area which held the night's accumulation of parts. As I came up, he picked up an armful and headed back toward the racks. I
Of course I knew why I wasn't asked to ride. No car could very well stop in that traffic. The cars behind would push it ahead, even with the brakes on and the motor off. And practically all of them were loaded; and they couldn't let me ride on the running board because there is a severely enforced ordinance against that.
Nevertheless, I hated them. Almost as much as I did myself.
I reached the plant just as the five-minute whistle was blowing. Actually, you're supposed to be inside, standing ready at your station when the five-minute blows; but there were hundreds besides myself who weren't. I fell into line in front of the gate that held my clock number. I was weak but I felt better. The sweating had done me good.
There was a steady snapping of metal and rustling of paper as the gate guards examined each man's lunch. One man, a new one doubtless, had his lunch wrapped in a newspaper. The line was held up while the guard untied the strings and unwrapped it.
When I reached the guard in our line, he glanced at my badge and pass. Then, holding the pass in his hand, he plucked the badge from my jacket and gave me a shove through the other lines.
"Over there. Chief's desk."
I didn't ask why. I thought I knew. For a moment it was in my mind to run. Then I thought, Well, if they really want me they'll get me. So I stood at the desk until the chief in his military cap and Sam Browne belt looked up. His face was fat and cold; his eyes shrewd.
"What number?"
"Huh?"
"Number, number. What's your clock number?"
"Oh." I told him what it was.
He reached into a drawer and pulled out another badge and a yellow isinglass enclosed card. It bore the picture they had taken of me the day before, my name, age, and a detailed physical description.
"This is your permanent badge, and number. Punch it hereafter. This is your identification card. Don't lose, lend, or forget either one. You'll need them to get through the gate and while you're inside. If you leave them at home, it'll cost you fifty cents for us to send a messenger after them. If you lose them, it will be a dollar. Understand? All right. Good luck."
I punched in, and walked through the crowded yard to the plant entrance… Relieved? That's not the right word. Maybe I'll tell you why some time.
The stockroom gate was locked, as usual. I could see Moon and Busken and Vail up in the Purchased-Parts section talking, but evidently they didn't see me. Gross, the bookkeeper, was on his stool, absorbedly manicuring his fingernails. I walked around to the window.
"How about letting me in?" I said.
He looked up. He is a handsome fellow, with his well-shaped head, dark eyes and hair, but so ruggedly built that he appears awkward. He was dressed impeccably in a doeskin jacket and brown whipcord pants.
"Crawl through the window," he suggested, pleasantly enough.
"How about the sign that says not to?"
"That don't mean anything. I crawl through all the time."
I scrambled through just as the seven-o'clock whistle was blowing, and bumped into Moon as I swung my feet to the floor.
"I wouldn't do that any more if I were you," he said. "There's a rule against it."
I looked at Gross. He was uncovering his typewriter, his back turned toward us.
"All right," I said. "What would you like to have me do today?"
"Get these parts off the floor the first thing."
"What-"
But he had turned away. Moon is something over six feet tall, very dark, and so thin that he seems to float rather than walk.
There was a short squat young man who looked like a Mexican moving around in the paper-carpeted area which held the night's accumulation of parts. As I came up, he picked up an armful and headed back toward the racks. I
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