The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “Neglect of duty!” Doris echoed in trembling voice. So that was what they were saying about Dan. A terrifying picture was suddenly before Doris’ eyes. The picture from her dream—Dan being fired—Dan being deported.

  Hastily she got into her clothes. She called a taxi. She left a note for her mother and departed.

  All the way to the B-Hive that terrifying picture in her mind tortured her. Only it was a series of pictures by now. The toppling of an air castle. The crashing of the happiness they had planned for the future. Dan searching for a job in other cities. Employers shaking their heads, recalling Dan’s picture in the papers. We know about you, Holland. You’re the man who neglected your machine. You were responsible for some injuries—and deaths. No, Holland, we can’t use you . . .

  Doris gave a little choked cry. The taxi driver turned around and glared at her and said, “Whatsamatter, kid?” But she didn’t hear. The blackest picture of all suddenly came back to her. Dan Holland might be killed—the same as Hayden was killed!

  The newscaster had described it in detail. Dazedly Doris had caught those details—the metal claw that had picked the workman up and dropped him into a freight capsule—the shoe that had kicked that capsule into the suction tunnel—the lightning ride through miles of space to the freight terminal—the sudden stop that doubtless crushed the skull—the fall into the freight car amid tons of heavy crates . . .

  “Kin ya make it in by yerself?” the taxi driver asked, helping her out. She acted as if she might fall down on the way up steps, he thought. He looked after her until she disappeared in the throngs that flowed into the visitor’s entrance of the B-Hive.

  “She ain’t drunk,” he muttered as he got back in his seat, “an’ she looks like she’s got good sense. Extra good sense—an’ extra good looks. Bui she’s sure-as-hell dizzy about somethin’.”

  Doris Wwhite was carried along with the crowd into the upper level of the vast industrial amphitheatre know as the B-Hive. Her heart was fluttering more than ever. Now that she was here she hadn’t the slightest idea what she was going to do.

  In a vague sense she had set forth from home with a plan. She would come and find Dan. She would demand to know whether there was something wrong with the machine he operated. If there was, she would insist that the thing be stopped. She would even call Ben Gleed himself, if the boss wouldn’t listen to her.

  But if the machine itself was all right, and all these troubles could be chalked up to bad operation, then she was going to stand over Dan Holland with a club, if necessary, and see that he didn’t take his mind off his work for one second. The instant he looked as if he was going dreamy, thinking about his date with her, she would make him get back to business—

  However, that was the point at which her plan of action became the most vague. After all, it might be thoughts of her that caused him to be negligent—

  At once all these mental revolvings swept themselves away.

  Doris gazing across the busy, turbulent B-Hive for the first time in her life found it all so much vaster than she had imagined it that she felt helpless. No wonder Dan had always dissuaded her from coming here to find him. The big circular freight arena that she looked down upon was like a colossal ant hill swarming with green ants.

  Doris gazed for several minutes before she figured out just what was taking place.

  The shiny metallic capsules, nearly as large as locomotive boilers, made their first appearance at the very center of the arena. They boiled up like a fountain of mammoth molecules. Automatically they opened, depositing their contents on the polished sides of the great revolving cone. It was this cone, forming the central area of the arena, which had given Doris the momentary impression of a giant ant hill.

  She watched the capsules open, deposit their contents, and roll away empty. So this was the revolving deck to which all outbound Class B freight—freight items small enough to be handled in these huge pneumatic-tube capsules—was sent. This was the world’s fastest freight clearing house. And the world’s busiest.

  Now her eye caught a pile of red and white shipping boxes. Those were Efficio television sets, she knew. She had once visited the factory and remembered that all outbound goods were amply placed on a conveyor belt which carried them into a freight capsule. Then the capsule had sped away through the suction tunnel.

  So this was where they came. As Doris watched, she saw the boxes slide gently to the outer edges of the gigantic cone.

  “Every box is numbered,” she heard someone explaining to a group of visitors who crowded at the railing near her. “They’re numbered according to which of the fifty odd transportation lines they’re going out over—rail, truck, water and air.

  When an operator sees a box coming around with his number on it—say he’s operating Iron Mas number five, for example—He sees a box or maybe a bunch of boxes with fives scribbled on them—they’re his to handle.”

  “You mean his Iron Man handles them?” a listener asked.

  “Right. All the operator has to do is turn his flashlight on the boxes he wants. The electric eyes on his Iron Man catch the signal and the big steel arm reaches out and picks up the boxes in its metal fingers, and loads the stuff into its outbound capsule. Number five, for example, shoots its stuff out north five miles to the Great Circle Air Freighters.”

  Doris, looking down on the heaps of freight that slid outward to the circumference of the broad revolving cone, was able to follow this explanation perfectly. She saw the operators spaced at regular intervals around the vast circle. She saw the huge steel arms, the “Iron Men”—one to each operator, mutely obeying the commands of colored flashlight beams against the sides of boxes.

  How innocently those great metallic fingers worked. And yet how deadly their terrific power!

  “Why so many colors of flashlight beams?” someone asked.

  “You’ll notice,” the explainer replied, “that there are no two blues, for example, or no two reds, side by side. Each Iron Man’s electric eyes are filtered for a certain color. If there were two reds side by side, the arms would reach over and take each other’s goods.”

  Doris started to move on around the circular balcony. From the run of the Iron Men’s numbers directly below her she knew that Dan and his number eleven must be at the other side. Then she overheard another remark and stopped to listen.

  “How do you suppose that fellow got killed tonight?”

  “Don’t know. Some said it was his own carelessness.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I’ve got it figured out this way. Those Iron Men don’t reach for anything unless their color is on it. If the fellow accidently shot the flashlight beam on himself—”

  “That wouldn’t do anything. The workers all wear green for protection,” someone else spoke up. “And you’ll notice there aren’t any green flash beams.”

  “Well, he might have had a white handkerchief in his pocket and shot his light on it. Anyhow, I know they’re supposed to flash them on and off, not to be sailing any extra beams around. That’s why they’ve got to be damned good. The stuff keeps coming at them like bats out of hell. One lazy slip’ll queer the works. Last week it was Kerstubber. Tonight it was Hayden.”

  “I heard that another guy, Holland, was the one that jinxed that number eleven machine.”

  “That’s what I heard. They say he pulls in late for work. He’s got a girl friend that’s more important than his job.”

  “And number eleven’s one of the heaviest freight lines in the B-Hive. It’s a wonder they haven’t canned him. Or maybe they figure he’ll get his, along with Hayden and Kerstubber.”

  “Looks like that’s what the crowd’s expecting. See how they’re bunched up across the way. That’s number eleven they’re looking down on. I was over there a while ago. He’s a tall, easy moving fellow—Holland. Acts like he don’t give a hang. . .”

  Doris White fled her face was flushed. She was burning up with a fever. “He got a girl friend . . . She followed
around the wide balcony swiftly. “. . . a girl friend that’s more important than his job!” She wanted to run. She wanted to get away. But involuntarily her feet took her around the outskirts of the balcony crowd for a closer glimpse of Dan.

  One glimpse. That was all. Yes, it was true, he was working away as carelessly as if nothing had happened. He flashed the blue beam of his light as deftly as if he were tossing peanuts to pigeons. The big steel arm reached for the blue-lighted objects, one after another, as easily—almost as quietly—as if it were a cooing pigeon.

  How could Dan be so nonchalant? Didn’t he know what had happened? Didn’t he know that all these people up here were talking about him—blaming him for what had happened?

  Doris’ ears burned. She slipped beak from the railing with furtive glances at the people at her sides. She felt a guilty terror—she was Dan Holland’s girl friend! But no one knew. She would get away before anyone found out—

  Clink! Swoosh!

  The sounds from Iron Man number eleven struck panic through her. She gave a little shriek.

  “Dan! Dan! She came running back toward the railing. “What was that—that noise? What happened?”

  Her frightened voice was lost in the confusion. It was only by force of elbows that she made her way back to where she could look down on number eleven.

  “What’s the matter, Miss?” asked a rotund spectator in a hearty voice.

  “Nothing,” Doris said weakly. “Just a sudden scare.” No, nothing had happened other than routine operations. The Iron Man had shoved off a full capsule and was beginning to load another. Dan was working away blithely, apparently unaware of the crowd two balconies above him.

  “Oh, Dan!” Doris was suddenly sobbing, much to the puzzlement of a few persons who heard her. “Do be careful, Dan!”

  “That must be his girl friend,” someone mumbled, as Doris found her way toward a balcony exit.

  CHAPTER IV

  An Early Morning Conference

  Doris didn’t go home. There was no use trying to go to sleep tonight. The best thing to do was to go to work. The restaurant which she and her mother managed was less than two blocks away. That would be Dan’s coffee refuge as soon as he was off. Very well. She would go over and relieve one of the waitresses on the night shift.

  Business was slack. There was much too much time for thinking and worrying. But the night’s news brought no more alarming reports from the B-Hive. Perhaps things were not go bad, after all. Perhaps Dan’s work would go on as usual.

  However, there would no doubt be an investigation. There was one question that would have to be answered. Was Dan Holland in anyway responsible for what had occurred?

  Morning brought Doris an answer to that question—in a very unexpected form. It came from the lips of Jacobs, the night-shift boss himself.

  Jacobs and the two other men came in at six—an hour before Dan’s shift would end. They settled at a comer table and Doris brought them water.

  “Nothing just now,” said Jacobs. “Well order later.”

  The men resumed their conversation. “Why here?”

  “It was Ben Gleed’s idea. Off the main main avenue. Out of sight of the publicity hounds. Gleed’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  After a short impatient wait during which the small man with the blue necktie full of tiny monkey-wrench designs chewed the cigar somewhat nervously, and the baldish man made pencil marks on his paper napkin, Ben Gleed arrived.

  The four men drank coffee and talked. Doris refilled their coffee cups and talked trembling with awe to be in the presence of the famous Ben Gleed.

  “Gentlemen,” said the handsome young city manager. “We’re in a spot. The Oil Center delegation will be here this afternoon. They’ll visit the B-Hive at three o’clock. We don’t want any log jams. And by heavens, we can’t afford any more industrial accidents. This B-Hive tragedy is going to give us a terrible black-eye.” The silence was heavy.

  “What’s the matter with your machines, Harrington?” Gleed turned the question on the small dark man, a supervising engineer. “Can’t you locate the trouble?”

  “The regular inspections don’t show up anything. I haven’t had time to work them over personally. My opinion is that the difficulty is with the workers. Sooner or later we’re going to need new trained men from the outside.”

  “Our old point of difference,” Gleed muttered. “I still maintain that we can develop workers for every job without reaching outside our city limits. But that’s neither here nor there. Our problem is immediate. Today is a crucial day. This Oil Center visit will be headlined all over the country. And you know Oil Center!”

  The men nodded. They knew, as all important Super City officials knew, that in spite of Gleed’s efforts to be friendly and fair, the Oil Center spirit was one of jealousy and enmity.

  “Our freight exports are at a new high,” Gleed continued. “Thousands of contracts are being lined up for next year. The world knows that we fill orders and ship goods at record speed. The B-Hive is the very heart of our trade arteries. Any more leakage of the heart might have fatal consequences. If these Oil Center delegates should witness any stupid blunders cm the part of our workers,” Gleed looked straight at the red-faced Jacobs, “or our machines,” turning his eyes on the small, dark engineer, Harrington, “we’d never hear the last of it.” Ben Gleed arose; the others followed his example.

  “Who’s on Iron Man number eleven now?” Gleed asked sharply.

  “Dan Holland,” Jacobs replied. I’m going to dismiss him as soon as I can get some new men lined up. It isn’t easy. Eleven takes clever handling. It’s like an old automobile that nobody can get along with but the driver.”

  “Then why dismiss Holland?” Gleed asked, pausing to pay the checks.

  “He’s back of our trouble,” said Jacobs. “Kerstubber got smashed up because he couldn’t stand the overtime. Holland was late.”

  “What about Hayden?”

  “Well, that was mainly nerves,” Jacobs grudgingly admitted. “Still, Holland was back of it, in a way, since it was the Kerstubber bang-up that shot the fear into these number eleven men. What’s more, I heard Holland scaring some of them with sabotage talk—as if someone might be slipping a screw loose on number eleven on the sly. All in all, I’ll feel better when Holland is scratched.”

  “Just as you say,” said Ben Gleed. “Send your papers direct to me—”

  The four men, having hesitated at the door to finish their talk, started out. Then a sharp feminine cry of “Wait, Mr. Gleed! Please!” made them turn. They were somewhat disconcerted to see the pretty blonde who had waited on them, wearing such an expression of pleading.

  “Please, Mr. Gleed,” Doris’ trembling fingers extended. “Please don’t fire Dan Holland.”

  Gleed gave her a look of sympathetic interest. “What is Dan Holland to you?”

  “He’s—he’s a customer—here at the restaurant—regular—”

  Ben Gleed smiled. “You’ll get another customer, I’m sure.”

  “And—and he’s my boy friend.”

  “You’ll get another boy friend,” Jacobs barked. The other men laughed, though Ben Gleed didn’t share their jest. His quizzical smile faded.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Then he and the others were gone.

  Thirty minutes later Dan Holland trooped in, steaming and high spirited from his night’s work. He was so surprised to see Doris at this hour of the morning that it would have knocked his cap off, he said, if he hadn’t already lost it.

  He drank coffee and ate toast with one hand, and patted Doris’ arm with the other; and she smiled and tried to pretend she hadn’t been crying. He knew she must have heard about Hayden and been worried.

  “Don’t waste any worries on me,” he chuckled. “I know how to take care of myself. If Jacobs had a few more number elevens like me he’d be all right.” Doris turned away. Dan rambled on, explaining what a time he’d had dashing to work
, and how he’d saved time by slipping in the visitor’s entrance and descending over the sides of the balconies in spite of ripping his shirt and stepping in chewing gum and crashing into bristling Snickson the clean-up man—and how Jacobs couldn’t say anything about not checking in, the regulation way, because it was an emergency.

  “And all the time I’ve been thinking of you, honey,” Dan said. “I’ve had an awful feeling that people are blaming me for what’s happened. I’ve noticed it in the way Jacobs and the other workers have treated me, ever since that night Kerstubber got banged up. Even the visitors up on the balcony—somehow I can just feel that they’re saying things about me. But all the time I keep saying to myself, ‘Doris doesn’t believe those things. She knows I’m okay.’ Look at me, honey. What’s the matter?”

  The girl’s eyes filled. She could not meet Dan’s questioning gaze.

  “Doris! I’m not kidding myself, am I? You do believe in me—don’t you?”

  “Oh, Dan—”

  “Answer me, Doris!”

  “Dan, they’re going to fire you!”

  “What?” Dan Holland could have taken a bolt of lightning as easily as those words. “Fire me? Me? Who said so?” Before Doris could answer, the restaurant door opened and in walked Jacobs. He sauntered over to the counter, placed his hand on Holland’s shoulder. For all the effect his gesture had, that shoulder might have been part of a stone statue.

  “Holland,” said Jacobs, “You’ve got to go back and take over this next shift. The regular man’s sick.”

  “You mean he’s scared?” Dan answered icily, meeting Jacobs’ eyes.

  “He’s so sick he can hardly stand up. Go over and relieve him at once. Official orders.” Jacobs stalked to the door, then looked back to make sure Holland would come through.

  Dan Holland laid down his fork, put a coin in Doris’ hand.

  “Official orders,” he muttered, and marched out.

  CHAPTER V

  Oil Center Gets an Eyeful