Triplanetary - E. E. Smith (phonics reader TXT) 📗

a f-u-s-e from a f-u-z-e, direct from a Wall Street desk.”

“So what?” One must have heard Ralph Kinnison say those two words to realize how much meaning they can be made to carry.

“So what!” the girl blazed, wringing her hands. “Ever since you have been over here I have been expecting you to blow up⁠—to smash something⁠—in spite of the dozens of times you have told me ‘a fighter can not slug effectively, Celeste, until he gets both feet firmly planted.’ When⁠—when⁠—are you going to get your feet planted?”

“Never, I’m afraid,” he said glumly, and she stared. “So I’ll have to start slugging with at least one foot in the air.”

That startled her. “Explain, please?”

“I wanted proof. Stuff that I could take to the District⁠—that I could use to tack some hides out flat on a barn door with. Do I get it? I do not. Not a shred. Neither can you. What chance do you think there is of ever getting any real proof?”

“Very little,” Celeste admitted. “But you can at least smash Pettler, Wilson, and that crowd. How I hate those slimy snakes! I wish that you could smash Tom Keller, the poisonous moron!”

“Not so much moron⁠—although he acts like one at times⁠—as an ignorant puppet with a head swelled three sizes too big for his hat. But you can quit yapping about slugging⁠—fireworks are due to start at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, when Drake is going to reject tonight’s run of shell.”

“Really? But I don’t see how either Pettler or Wilson come in.”

“They don’t. A fight with those small fry⁠—even smashing them⁠—wouldn’t make enough noise. Keller.”

“Keller!” Celeste squealed. “But you’ll.⁠ ⁠…”

“I know I’ll get fired. So what? By tackling him I can raise enough hell so that the Big Shots will have to cut out at least some of the rough stuff. You’ll probably get fired too, you know⁠—you’ve been too close to me for your own good.”

“Not me.” She shook her head vigorously. “The minute they terminate you, I quit. Poof! Who cares? Besides, I can get a better job in Townville.”

“Without leaving the Project. That’s what I figured. It’s the boys I’m worried about. I’ve been getting them ready for this for weeks.”

“But they will quit, too. Your Siberians⁠—your Inspectors⁠—of a surety they will quit, every one!”

“They won’t release them; and what Stoner and Black will do to them, even after the war, if they quit without releases, shouldn’t be done to a dog. They won’t quit, either⁠—at least if they don’t try to push them around too much. Keller’s mouth is watering to get hold of Siberia, but he’ll never make it, nor any one of his stooges.⁠ ⁠… I’d better dictate a memorandum to Black on that now, while I’m calm and collected; telling him what he’ll have to do to keep my boys from tearing Entwhistle apart.”

“But do you think he will pay any attention to it?”

“I’ll say he will!” Kinnison snorted. “Don’t kid yourself about Black, Celeste. He’s a smart man, and before this is done he’ll know that he’ll have to keep his nose clean.”

“But you⁠—how can you do it?” Celeste marveled. “Me, I would urge them on. Few would have the patriotism.⁠ ⁠…”

“Patriotism, hell! If that were all, I would have stirred up a revolution long ago. It’s for the boys, in years to come. They’ve got to keep their noses clean, too. Get your notebook, please, and take this down. Rough draft⁠—I’m going to polish it up until it has teeth and claws in every line.”

And that evening, after supper, he informed Eunice of all the new developments.

“Is it still OK with you,” he concluded, “for me to get myself fired off of this high-salaried job of mine?”

“Certainly. Being you, how can you do anything else? Oh, how I wish I could wring their necks!” That conversation went on and on, but additional details are not necessary here.

Shortly after two o’clock of the following afternoon, Celeste took a call; and listened shamelessly.

“Kinnison speaking.”

“Tug, Uncle Ralph. The casts sectioned just like we thought they would. Dead ringers for Plate D. So Drake hung a red ticket on every tray. Piddy was right there, waiting, and started to raise hell. So I chipped in, and he beat it so fast that I looked to see his coattail catch fire. Drake didn’t quite like to call you, so I did. If Piddy keeps on going at the rate he left here, he’ll be in Keller’s office in nothing flat.”

“OK, Tug. Tell Drake that the shell he rejected are going to stay rejected, and to come in right now with his report. Would you like to come along?”

“Would I!” Tugwell hung up and:

“But do you want him here, Doc?” Celeste asked, anxiously, without considering whether or not her boss would approve of her eavesdropping.

“I certainly do. If I can keep Tug from blowing his top, the rest of the boys will stay in line.”

A few minutes later Tugwell strode in, bringing with him Drake, the Chief Line Inspector of the Nine Line. Shortly thereafter the office door was wrenched open. Keller had come to Kinnison, accompanied by the Superintendent whom the Siberians referred to, somewhat contemptuously, as “Piddy.”

“Damn your soul, Kinnison, come out here⁠—I want to talk to you!” Keller roared, and doors snapped open up and down the long corridor.

“Shut up, you God damned louse!” This from Tugwell, who, black eyes almost emitting sparks, was striding purposefully forward. “I’ll sock you so damned hard that.⁠ ⁠…”

“Pipe down, Tug, I’ll handle this.” Kinnison’s voice was not loud, but it had then a peculiarly carrying and immensely authoritative quality. “Verbally or physically; however he wants to have it.”

He turned to Keller, who had jumped backward into the hall to avoid the young Siberian.

“As for you, Keller, if you had the brains that God gave bastard geese in Ireland, you would have had this conference in private. Since you started it in public, however, I’ll finish it in public. How you came to pick me for a yes-man