faced bankruptcy, onlyto be gobbled up by the one ready buyer with plenty of funds to buywith. At first, changes had been small and insignificant: boards ofdirectors shifted; the men were paid higher wages and worked shorterhours; there were tighter management policies; and a little less moneywas spent on extras like Research and Development.
At first--until that fateful night when Daniel P. Torkleson of TWA andJake Squill of Amalgamated Buttonhole Makers spent a long evening withbeer and cigars in a hotel room, and floated the loan that threw steelto the unions. Oil had followed with hardly a fight, and as the unionsbegan to feel their oats, the changes grew more radical.
Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The gradual undercuttingof the managerial salaries, the tightening up of inter-union collusionto establish the infamous White list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shiftfrom hourly wage to annual salary for the factory workers, and thechange to the other pole for the managerial staff. And then, withcreeping malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more andhigher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward the inevitablecrisis.
Until Shop Steward Bailey suddenly found himself in charge of a dozensputtering machines and an empty office.
* * * * *
Torkleson was waiting to see the shop steward when he came in nextmorning. The union boss's office was crowded with TV cameras, newsmen,and puzzled workmen. The floor was littered with piles ofominous-looking paper. Torkleson was shouting into a telephone, andthree lawyers were shouting into Torkleson's ear. He spotted Bailey andwaved him through the crowd into an inner office room. "Well? Did theyget them fixed?"
Bailey spread his hands nervously. "The electronics boys have been at itsince yesterday afternoon. Practically had the machines apart on thefloor."
"I know that, stupid," Torkleson roared. "I ordered them there. Did theyget the machines _fixed_?"
"Uh--well, no, as a matter of fact--"
"Well, _what's holding them up_?"
Bailey's face was a study in misery. "The machines just go in circles.The circuits are locked. They just reverberate."
"Then call American Electronics. Have them send down an expert crew."
Bailey shook his head. "They won't come."
"They _what_?"
"They said thanks, but no thanks. They don't want their fingers in thispie at all."
"Wait until I get O'Gilvy on the phone."
"It won't do any good, sir. They've got their own management troubles.They're scared silly of a sympathy strike."
The door burst open, and a lawyer stuck his head in. "What about thoseinjunctions, Dan?"
"Get them moving," Torkleson howled. "They'll start those machinesagain, or I'll have them in jail so fast--" He turned back to Bailey."What about the production lines?"
The shop steward's face lighted. "They slipped up, there. There was oneprogram that hadn't been coded into the machines yet. Just a minor item,but it's a starter. We found it in Towne's desk, blueprints all ready,promotion all planned."
"Good, good," Torkleson breathed. "I have a directors' meeting rightnow, have to get the workers quieted down a bit. You put the programthrough, and give those electronics men three more hours to unsnarl thisknot, or we throw them out of the union." He started for the door. "Whatwere the blueprints for?"
"Trash cans," said Bailey. "Pure titanium-steel trash cans."
It took Robling Titanium approximately two days to convert its entireproduction line to titanium-steel trash cans. With the total resourcesof the giant plant behind the effort, production was phenomenal. In twomore days the available markets were glutted. Within two weeks, at aconservative estimate, there would be a titanium-steel trash can forevery man, woman, child, and hound dog on the North American continent.The jet engines, structural steels, tubing, and other pre-strikeproducts piled up in the freight yards, their routing slips and orderrequisitions tied up in the reverberating machines.
But the machines continued to buzz and sputter.
The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and Hendricks andall the others had been picketing the plant, until angry crowds ofworkers had driven them off with shotguns. Then they came back in anold, weatherbeaten 'copter which hovered over the plant entrancecarrying a banner with a plaintive message: ROBLING TITANIUM UNFAIR TOMANAGEMENT. Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copterremained.
The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering Towneto return to work. It was duly appealed, legal machinery began tyingitself in knots, and the strikers still struck. By the fifth day therewas a more serious note.
"You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge this one."
"When?"
"Tomorrow morning. And before a labor-rigged judge, too." The littlelawyer paced his office nervously. "I don't like it. Torkleson's gettingdesperate. The workers are putting pressure on him."
Walter grinned. "Then Pendleton is doing a good job of selling."
"But you haven't got _time_," the lawyer wailed. "They'll have you injail if you don't start the machines again. They may have you in jail ifyou _do_ start them, too, but that's another bridge. Right now they wantthose machines going again."
"We'll see," said Walter. "What time tomorrow?"
"Ten o'clock." Bates looked up. "And don't try to skip. You be there,because _I_ don't know what to tell them."
Walter was there a half hour early. Torkleson's legal staff gloweredfrom across the room. The judge glowered from the bench. Walter closedhis eyes with a little smile as the charges were read: "--breach ofcontract, malicious mischief, sabotage of the company's machines,conspiring to destroy the livelihood of ten thousand workers. YourHonor, we are preparing briefs to prove further that these men haveformed a conspiracy to undermine the economy of the entire nation. Weappeal to the spirit of orderly justice--"
Walter yawned as the words went on.
"Of course, if the defendant will waive his appeals against the previousinjunctions, and will release the machines that were sabotaged, we willbe happy to formally withdraw these charges."
There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His Honor turned toJeff Bates. "Are you counsel for the defendant?"
"Yes, sir." Bates mopped his bald scalp. "The defendant pleads guilty toall counts."
The union lawyer dropped his glasses on the table with a crash. Thejudge stared. "Mr. Bates, if you plead guilty, you leave me noalternative--"
"--but to send me to jail," said Walter Towne. "Go ahead. Send me tojail. In fact, I _insist_ upon going to jail."
The union lawyer's jaw sagged. There was a hurried conference. A recesswas pleaded. Telephones buzzed. Then: "Your Honor, the plaintiff desiresto withdraw all charges at this time."
"Objection," Bates exclaimed. "We've already pleaded."
"--feel sure that a settlement can be effected out of court--"
The case was thrown out on its ear.
And still the machines sputtered.
* * * * *
Back at the plant rumor had it that the machines were permanentlygutted, and that the plant could never go back into production.Conflicting scuttlebutt suggested that persons high in uniondom hadperpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying Management into the strikefor the sole purpose of cutting current dividends and selling stock tothemselves cheaply. The rumors grew easier and easier to believe. Theworkers came to the plants in business suits, it was true, and loungedin the finest of lounges, and read the _Wall Street Journal_, and feltlike stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not thehighest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance fees, andsundry other little items which had formerly been paid by well-to-domanagements, and very little was left but the semi-annual dividendchecks. And now the dividends were tottering.
Production lines slowed. There were daily brawls on the plant floor, inthe lounge and locker rooms. Workers began joking about the trash cans;then the humor grew more and more remote. F
inally, late in the afternoonof the eighth day, Bailey was once again in Torkleson's office.
"Well? Speak up! What's the beef this time?"
"Sir--the men--I mean, there's been some nasty talk. They're tired ofmaking trash cans. No challenge in it. Anyway, the stock room is full,and the freight yard is full, and the last run of orders we sent outcame back because nobody wants any more trash cans." Bailey shook hishead. "The men won't swallow it any more. There's--well, there's beentalk about having a board meeting."
Torkleson's ruddy