g. The reports waiting on his desk were
what worried him. The sales reports. The promotion-draw reports. The
royalty reports. The anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his head
wearily. The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even
infuriating, but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter.

He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves, and tried
vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept scooting his tie up
under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he started up the Robling
corridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps he would be fortunate. Maybe the
reports would be late. Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail to
synapse this morning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as he
was dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way to work. He
walked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancing in at the groups of
men, arguing politics and checking the stock market reports before they
changed from their neat gray business suits to their welding dungarees.
Running up the stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the
door to punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could be sick--

Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming with
frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows of cubbyholes. In the
middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellow checkered
tattersall, smoking a large cigar. His feet were planted on his desk
top, but he hadn't started on his morning Western yet. He was busy
glaring, first at the clock, then at Walter.

"Late again, I see," the shop steward growled.

Walter gulped. "Yes, sir. Just four minutes, this time, sir. You know
those crowded strips--"

"So it's _just_ four minutes now, eh?" Bailey's feet came down with a
crash. "After last month's fine production record, you think four
minutes doesn't matter, eh? Think just because you're a vice president
it's all right to mosey in here whenever you feel like it." He glowered.
"Well, this is three times this month you've been late, Towne. That's a
demerit for each time, and you know what that means."

"You wouldn't count four minutes as a whole demerit!"

Bailey grinned. "Wouldn't I, now! You just add up your pay envelope on
Friday. Ten cents an hour off for each demerit."

Walter sighed and shuffled back to his desk. Oh, well. It could have
been worse. They might have fired him like poor Cartwright last month.
He'd just _have_ to listen to that morning