The official smiled. “In that case, even if he were a foreign agent, he’d be of no further use to his homeland, and we might as well get some work out of him.” He closed the folder and beckoned to a clerk. “Here,” he ordered, “endorse this over to tire Sponsor Service division. No reason for us to waste further time with it.”
The file continued on its way to a cabinet, and its subject followed the routine of hospital rehabilitation. Harl Varon was a real person.
He walked into the occupational therapy office, and the therapist looked up as he approached her desk.
“Right on time, I see,” she smiled at him, then glanced down at the card in her hand. “I just got this. The Dornath Establishment has decided to sponsor you.” She looked happily at him. “That’s good luck, isn’t it?”
“Dornath?”
“Why, yes. They make the Dornath turbo-car, you know. It’s one of the biggest factories. You’re very lucky, but then, you’ve come along beautifully with your training.” She stood up. “Well, we’d better get to work. You’ll be an assembler, so we should concentrate on manual dexterity.”
Varon followed her to the tables. The slight drag of his left foot bothered him a little, but not too much. He flexed the fingers of his left hand. There was hardly any numbness left. He flexed his arm, then raised it. It came up, shoulder high, then slopped.
He concentrated, but it would go no higher. The therapist turned.
“Don’t worry about that,” she advised. “It’ll clear up in time. Besides, in your work, you won’t need to raise your arms. It’s all bench work, with the materials in easy reach, just like this table.” She pointed to the trays of machine parts which were arranged in two quarter circles. Directly in front of the chair was a diagram, showing an assembly. Varon saw that it looked like the pump described in the little pamphlet he’d found on his table the previous night.
He sat down, examining the trays before him, as the girl explained the steps necessary in the operation he was to practice, then he started putting the parts together.
It really wasn’t a difficult assembly. In a few days, Varon discovered that he could set it up in less than the required time. The therapist checked him one morning, nodding her head in satisfaction.
“Why, you’ll make a very successful assembler, Harl,” she complimented. “I can give you a certificate of completion right now.” She wrote on a form and handed it to him.
“Here. Take this to the office. They’ll make out your discharge and give you the necessary papers and details.”
At the hospital office, Varon encountered very little difficulty. He had to wait, of course, for various clerks and officials, but it was still early afternoon when he found himself at the Dornath Establishment. In due time, the receptionist nodded at him, and he went into the Personnel Director’s office. As he walked in, he looked about. It was a neat office. There were some pictures on the wall, a portrait, and a couple of group pictures. A pair of certificates were prominently displayed, and there was a neat arrangement of chairs, and a man behind a desk. The metal sign identified him as Kort Dandro, Director of Personnel. Just now, he was occupied with some notes in a folder. He examined these carefully, finally making a notation on one, and shoving the folder aside. He replaced his pen in its stand, then looked up questioningly.
“I’m Harl Varon, sir. I was told to come here from the City Hospital.”
The official frowned for an instant, then smiled. “Oh, yes. You’re quite prompt.” He turned. “Cara,” he called. “Bring the folder on the new man, Harl Varon.”
There was the sound of a file drawer opening and closing, then a girl came in, carrying a folder. She spread it out before her superior, picked up the folder he had been examining, and went out. The executive bent over the new folder for a few moments, turning the sheets. At last, he looked up.
“Well, Varon,” he remarked, “you’re in pretty good shape.” He tapped the file approvingly. “I should say the budget department did very well for you. Very well, indeed.”
“Of course,” he added, “you had a pretty heavy commitment when we agreed to sponsor you. Yes, you were a pretty sick man, and you’d been in the hospital for some time. We had to consider quite a few aspects in your case. But then, I think you’ll make good. Certainly, we all hope so.” He smiled encouragingly at Varon, then bent to the folder again.
“Your hospital charges amounted to some eleven hundred ninety-two crowns, sixty-three kel. That, of course, has been paid over to the City Hospital. We can’t have our workers in debt, you know. We opened an account for you in the Employees’ Welfare Fund, and they’ve agreed to amortize your account at four crowns per week, with interest at a tenth of one per cent per week.” He turned the folder so that it faced the new employee, pointing a if the figures with his pen. “Your initial wage will be twenty-eight crowns per week, and your basic food bill at the Workers’ Cafeteria will run to ten. You are unattached, I believe?”
Varon grinned. “I guess so,” he admitted. “No one seems to—”
“Exactly.” The counselor smiled back. “So, you can be quartered in the single men’s dormitory. The charge for that is eight crowns a week. Now, let me see.” He ran the pen down the column of figures. “Four and ten, plus eight. That makes twenty-two, which leaves you an allowance of six crowns a week for spending money. You should be very comfortable.” He stood up.
“Suppose we go on down to the department, and I’ll introduce you to your supervisor.”
They went out a side door into the park. The high, pale brown buildings inclosed a large quadrangle, which was landscaped into a miniature woodland area. A path led between hedgerows, wound over a small bridge, and disappeared as it curved into the trees. Overhead, the sky made a pale blue roof, dotted with a few clouds. Varon looked at the view with some pleasure. Here, he felt, was a place where a man could relax in the evening. As they crossed the bridge, his guide made a sound of annoyance. A man had just come into sight around the bend in the path.
“Cenro,” called the official, “slop. I want to talk to you.”
The man had started to go into a side path, but stopped, then stood, waiting.
“Cenro,” said the counselor, “what are you doing here?”
The man shuffled his feet a little, then moved the case he was carrying under his arm into plainer sight. “I have to take some stuff up to Executive Branch, sir. I Wanted to save time instead of going all the way around.”
The executive looked at him sorrowfully. “I can’t understand it,” lie murmured. “You know the rules, Cenro. Why do you persist in breaking them?”
“I just wanted to save some time.”
Kort Dandro shook his head. “Well, we won’t waste any more, then,” he decided. “I’ll speak to your supervisor later.”
“Yes, sir.” The man turned into the side path.
Dandro watched him disappear. “That man,” he complained. “An excellent worker most of the time, but he will persist in getting into trouble.”
“What did he do?” Varon was curious.
The counselor looked at him in some surprise. “Why, he was here, unescorted,” he started, then hesitated. “Oh,” he added, “I forgot. You haven’t been informed yet, of course.” He made an inclusive gesture. “This is Executive Park,” he exclaimed. “’Workers are never allowed here, unless escorted by a member of the Executive Branch. We can’t have our employees wandering about in here, neglecting their work. Why, it would upset the whole plant routine.” He looked around the park approvingly for a moment. “Besides,” he added, “the average worker is rather thoughtless. Crowds of them would ruin the landscaping.”
“Oh,” said Varon, “I see. But what will happen to the man?”
Dandro seemed annoyed. “Why, really!” He checked himself. “Why, really, I don’t know. I suppose his supervisor will think of something.” He suppressed his annoyance and smiled engagingly. “We of the Personnel Service don’t involve ourselves with disciplina
ry problems, you knew. We are here to help the worker, not to punish him.” He paused, eying Varon.
“The Establishment rules, you will find, are all in the ’employees’ Informant.’ Your supervisor will give you a copy, of course.” He sighed. “I hope you, at least, will observe them.”
He led the way through the park, finally pausing before a door marked “Small Pumps Department.” He directed a pointed glance at Varon, who took the hint and opened the door for him. Dandro proceeded through, followed by the newest assembly hand.
At the end of the long room, where the conveyer tracks converged to go into the next department, there was a small, glass-walled office. As they entered, the man at the desk looked up, then got to his feet.
“Piros, this is your new man, Harl Varon.” Kort Dandro gestured. “Kolar Piros is the general supervisor of Small Pumps. He’ll explain your work to you, Varon.” The counsellor turned. “While I’m here, Piros, I think I’d like a look at your department.”
“Certainly.” The supervisor opened a drawer and picked out a booklet. “Here,” he said to Harl, “read this for a while. I’ll be right back.” He followed Dandro out the door.
For a moment, Varon watched them as they went along the aisle between the benches, then he looked at the booklet. It was titled, “Employees’ Informant.” He opened it, discovering that the first page was a fold-out map, with the various locations within the factory indicated. Later pages described certain sections, such as the Workers’ Cafeteria, the Quarters, the Sales Store, and so on. Following that was a list of rules. Varon flipped the pages for a moment, then looked out of the window. It was, he had noticed, the only window in the department. Out in the assembly room, the walls were decorated with framed signs. “Precision First” “Efficiency Leads to Contentment” “Your Production Quota is—” At the end of the room, a large heraldic design indicated that this was a part of the House of Dornath.
Outside the window, Varon could see a part of the testing lot. As he watched, a turbo-car came down the track, the whine of its blower sounding faintly through the wall. It came to a turn, slid half across the track, then emitted a puff of black smoke, straightened, and accelerated rapidly. The scream of tires died away, the blower whine faded, and Varon returned to the booklet. He was reading when Piros returned.
The foreman was alone. He glanced at the new man, then crossed the room and sat down behind his desk.
“Think you’ve read it pretty thoroughly?” Piros asked.
“I think so, sir.”
“You know about Executive Park and the other restricted areas?”
“I think I understand.”
The foreman nodded. “Good. And, I suppose you’ll be able to find the Quarters?”
Varon indicated the map in the booklet. “I believe I can, sir.”
“That’s fine.” The foreman glanced at his watch. “It’s almost shift time now, so I think I’ll show you your work place, then you can go over and take it easy till your shift comes on.” He started for the door, and Varon followed him down the aisle. They stopped by an assembly bench.
“This,” Piros informed his new man, “is your place. Number twelve.” He pointed to a large number painted on the side of the bench. “You’ll come on at zero hours, punctually, of course, and start work immediately. Don’t worry about checking in. Your group leader will take care of that, and he’ll give you any advice you may need. His name is Mawner.” He paused, looking at Varon.
“I won’t see you again for some time, unless you violate some regulation, so go ahead over to the quarters, get settled, and remember, do good work, and Dornath’ll take good care of you.” He nodded a dismissal, and turned away.
For a few heartbeats, Varon watched him as he strode down the aisle, then he walked to the door. Outside, he checked the map in his “Informant,” looked at the building numbers, and started toward the workers’ quarters. It was a fairly long walk. Varon looked about as he went, occasionally checking his location with the map. He entered a building marked “Men’s Dormitory.” A directory told him the location of his room, and he climbed the stairs, then went down the corridor until he found a door numbered 304.
Varon opened the door, then paused, looking at the room. A man was getting something out of a wardrobe. He noticed the newcomer and turned, facing him.
“You the new man?”
“Yes. Just came in today.”
“I see.” The man pointed, “Thai’s your spot, over there. You better go down to the office, though, and get your gear.” He looked down at the roll of cloth in his hands. “Play t lingo?”
Varon smiled. “Afraid my education didn’t go that far,” he admitted.
The man stared in surprise. “Where you been?”
“Just got out of the hospital. Head injury.”
“Oh.” The man closed the wardrobe door. “Well, make yourself at home. I’m going to see if I can scare me up a game.” He went out.
Varon crossed over to his bed and sat down, looking around the room. There wasn’t much to see. There were the four wardrobes, the beds, a couple of mirrors. There was the writing table. On the walls were a few pictures, neatly framed, and a couple of certificates—also neatly framed. The floor was bare and scrubbed. The window looked out on an airshaft. He got up again and went to the door. A framed notice was bolted to the inside, large letters identifying it as, “Dormitory Regulations.” He read it through, then went out into the corridor, glanced toward the recreation room, and started toward the stairs.
Some time later, he returned. He dropped the load of gear on the bed, then stood, looking at it. His account at Employees’ Welfare had grown. He stretched cramped muscles for a moment, then glanced over at the framed regulations. Article two, he remembered, stated that rooms would be kept clean and in neat condition at all times. He looked back at the pile of clothing and equipment on the bed. It wasn’t neat.
Finally, he looked with satisfaction at the well-made bed and the closed wardrobe. There was a reason, he realized, why occupational therapy had included such things as bed making and orderly arrangement of working clothes. He looked about the room for a few minutes, then went out into the corridor and through the arch into the recreation room.
Most of the off-shift men were there. Some of them were reading. A few were writing at the small tables, but the crowd was around a table at the center of the room, where a large playing cloth was spread. There were a number of counters scattered about the enameled pattern, and everyone was watching a man who shook a leather cup. He plunked the cup down on the table, then up-ended it to let four tetrahedrons fall out. He studied them slowly, then examined the playing board.
He looked thoughtfully back at the tetrahedrons, finally picking up two of them and replacing them in the cup. A man in the group of watchers shook his head.
“Long shot,” he grunted. “He’ll never make it.”
Another man took some coins from his pocket. “Gam’s lucky,” he declared. “How much you bet?”
“Half a crown says he can’t do it.”
“Put up your money, Mern. You got a bet.”
The cup smacked down on the table again, and the lorcit fell out. The player glanced at them, then started moving counters around the board. “Tungo!” he grinned.
Mern watched the successful better pick up the two coins. “Oh, well,” he remarked defensively, “it was a good bet, anyway.”
Varon watched the game for a while. It seemed to be simple enough. The counters were moved according to the figures thrown from the toren cup. Certain positions of counters and corresponding figures on the four toren
EX 11.15 permitted the player to make extra moves and to take a second throw. Such combinations were known by the term “tungo,” after which the game seemed to be named. The game seemed relatively uncomplicated, but there was an element of skill, especially in selecting odds. A player could make a second attempt at a tungo, but lost his turn if he failed to make it. Eventually, Varon lost intere
st, and wandered down town.
He returned late in the evening. The City Library, he had found, provided a better collection of books than the hospital had afforded, but he was mildly annoyed at the restrictions. The cards of two of the books he had chosen had been code-numbered in blue. The clerk had been quite irritable about it. He should have known that common workers were not allowed to take any book with a colored-code number. His stupidity had caused her extra work, since now she would have to refile the card needlessly. He had taken a black-coded book, but the footnote references to the books he had wanted still bothered him.
A tungo game was still going on in the recreation room. Other players had replaced the men who had been at the board when he left, but the watchers still stood, making occasional bets. He joined the crowd.
A man came in, dropped into a chair, and sat glowering angrily at the game. Someone noticed him.
“Hey, Cenro, what happened to you? Mad at the world?”
“Caught extra work.”
“How come?”
“All, old Dandro again. Piros sent me over to Executive with a bunch of reports and Dandro was hauling some nid through Executive Park. He saw me.” Cenro popped a hand angrily on the chair arm. “Another half year’s raise privilege gone.” He shook his head, then looked around the room and noticed Varon.
“Oh, you! Why couldn’t you have kept him busy talking? Maybe he wouldn’t have noticed me.” He stood up again. “Absent-minded old dope can’t see anyone when he’s put ting out some of his ‘good advice.’ ”
“But, I didn’t even know you weren’t supposed to be there.” Varon was surprised at the sudden denunciation. “I’m sorry—”
“Agh, nids never know anything.” Cenro looked at him scornfully, then turned away. “Heck with ’em. I’m going to bed.” He stalked out.
Varon looked after him. Behind, a man yawned noisily.
“Yeah, guess I’ll crawl in, Loo. Another day tomorrow.”
As Varon looked back toward the tungo game, some of the onlookers glanced quickly away from him and became absorbed in the fall of the toren. He looked down the hall, noticing that men were coming out of their rooms, dressed in work clothing. Sleepily, they started for the stairs. With a start, he realized that this was his shift. There would be no sleep for him. In fact, he would have to hurry to avoid being late.
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