buzzer.

The reports were on his desk. He picked them up warily. Maybe they
wouldn't be so bad. He'd had more freedom this last month than before,
maybe there'd been a policy change. Maybe Torkleson was gaining
confidence in him. Maybe--

The reports were worse than he had ever dreamed.

"_Towne!_"

Walter jumped a foot. Bailey was putting down the visiphone receiver.
His grin spread unpleasantly from ear to ear. "What have you been doing
lately? Sabotaging the production line?"

"What's the trouble now?"

Bailey jerked a thumb significantly at the ceiling. "The boss wants to
see you. And you'd better have the right answers, too. The boss seems to
have a lot of questions."

Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson had
already seen the reports. He started for the door, his knees shaking.

It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably. Time was when
things had been very different. It had _meant_ something to be vice
president of a huge industrial firm like Robling Titanium. A man could
have had a fine house of his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to the
Country Club; maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere.

Walter could almost remember those days with Robling, before the
switchover, before that black day when the exchange of ten little shares
of stock had thrown the Robling Titanium Corporation into the hands of
strange and unnatural owners.

* * * * *

The door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged in gold:

TITANIUM WORKERS
OF AMERICA
Amalgamated Locals
Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary

The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter with pity.
"Mr. Torkleson will see you."

Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome office. For an
instant he felt a pang of nostalgia--the floor-to-ceiling windows
looking out across the long buildings of the Robling plant, the pine
paneling, the broad expanse of desk--

"Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over here." The
man behind the desk hoisted his three hundred well-dressed pounds and
glared at Walter from under flagrant eyebrows. Torkleson's whole body
quivered as he slammed a sheaf of papers down on the desk. "Just what do
you think you're doing with this company, Towne?"

Walter swallowed. "I'm production manager of the corporation."

"And just what does the production manager _do_ all day?"

Walter reddened.