The companies called “Julien Kahn, Inc.,” and “Titanic Shoe Corporation of America” were invented by the author and do not in fact exist. There are real fashion shoe houses mentioned in this novel, but they are included as part of the background, and no similarity is intended or implied between their workings, external or internal, and the business procedures of the fictitious firms. “Plastics, Inc.,” is likewise a fictitious name for an invented company. The characters and incidents, too, are part of the fictional pattern — and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual happenings is purely coincidental.

Even the factory wore a jubilant face.

It squatted on the Jersey flatlands like a grinning gargoyle, its. windows reflecting the early morning sunlight like rows and rows of bright shining smiling teeth. He pulled the car around the wide white sweep of concrete and then through the cyclone fence into the parking lot. He could smell New Jersey, but the smell wasn’t an obnoxious one this morning. No, nothing could be obnoxious this morning. The smell was a dash of cologne and a sprinkle of Shalimar, and the sun was shining and the factory was smiling and puffing at its chimneys like a fat burgher with a pipe, and all was right with the world.

He drove through the lot leisurely, picking a good spot, and then locking up. He automatically looked for Aaron’s old Dodge, and when he found it he derived a peculiar satisfaction from knowing Aaron was already in. He walked through the lot quickly, unable to keep the unconscious spring out of his step, unable to keep the smile off his face.

High up on the roof of the factory, like the overgrown face of an envelope sprawling between two chimneys, the company sign looked down at him, a huge white rectangle with black script lettering on it:

Good morning, Julien Kahn, he thought.

And good-by, George Kurz. Good-by, you old son of a bitch.

Now, now, he chided himself, we shouldn’t be gleeful over another man’s misfortune, but oh am I delighted that rotten bastard is finally getting the ax, I’m tickled pink, I’m so damn happy I could bust.

The smile expanded on his face. He felt the sudden nip of the February air, threw a hasty salute at the sign above the building, and then went through the wide glass doors and past the information booth and Bill, the watchman, walking directly to the elevator banks. He pushed the UP button and then pulled back the sleeve of his coat, glancing at his watch. Eight-forty-five. Early this morning, early for the beheading. Any volunteers to hold the basket? And forty thousand men were killed in the mad rush to the scaffold.

He began humming to himself, standing in the corridor where the real factory began, an abrupt changeover from the marble-floored entrance lobby with its plaque to old Julien Kahn and its glass cases of shoes. Occasionally, he glanced up at the floor indicator needle, and it wasn’t until the needle reached 3 that he realized he was humming “The Funeral March.” He burst out laughing and then looked over his shoulder, managing to suppress his glee before the car doors opened.

“Morning, Max,” he said cheerfully.

“Morning, Griff,” the elevator man answered. He was a short squat man who wore his dungarees with all the authority of a brigadier general. His shoulders were wide and muscular and the face above the shoulders was beaming and round.

“Nine, Griff?”

“Nine, Max.”

Max pulled the doors shut and set the car in motion. The men were silent for a moment, listening to the whir of the car’s mechanism, hearing beneath that the steady thrum-thrum of the factory.

“G.K. gets canned today,” Max said happily.

“He does,” Griff answered, “he does that.” He was always amazed by the efficiency of the intrafactory spy system, a system which apprised every employee of everything that was happening or about to happen even when it was top-level stuff.

Max shook his head in mock sorrow. “I bleed for him.”

“All over the rug,” Griff said, smiling.

“But,” Max said, returning the smile, “those are the breaks. Some got it, and some ain’t got it.” Max paused philosophically. “Yep, I really bleed for G.K., all right. I really bleed for the poor bugger. Now he’ll have nothing to do but sit back and spend what he’s been stealing from the company for the past twenty years.”

“Requiescat,” Griff said.

“Huh?” Max said, and then as an afterthought, “Nine.” He threw open the doors, and Griff thanked him and stepped out of the car. He waved at the closing doors and then walked to the time clock.

5741.

He reached for the card automatically, inserted it into the IN slot, and heard the familiar clicking whir as the card was punched. He looked at the stamped time. Eight fifty-one. He put the card back in the rack, and then walked left down the corridor, passing the huge Payroll Department and then Credit. He doubled back and peeked into the open door, wondering if Danny was in yet. Magruder was sitting at his desk with a container of coffee in front of him. He looked up and waved and then went back to reading his morning newspaper. Griff went down the hallway, toward the partitioning at the end of the wing. A sign over the doorway at the end of the hall read COST. To the right of the doorway, one over the other, two small placards announced the names of the office’s inhabitants:

He walked through the doorway and directly to Aaron’s desk.

“Good morn-ing, Mr. Reis,” he said pompously.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Griffin,” Aaron replied, using his phony big-business voice. He was a thin man with curling black hair and wide, soulful brown eyes. His nose and mouth seemed to be constantly on the alert for alien smells and tastes, giving him the appearance of a perpetually sniffing cocker spaniel.

“You’re early today, A.R.,” Griff said, expanding his voice in imitation of a tycoon, taking off his coat at the same time.

“Well, R.G.,” Aaron said big-businessly, “I didn’t want to miss the gala festivities.”

“Did you come prepared?”

“How so, R.G.?”

“Rice, confetti, things to throw?”

Aaron snapped his fingers in disappointment. “Damn,” he said. “Only thing I brought to throw was an old monkey wrench. Now, do you suppose the son of a bitch will mind a monkey wrench at the back of his bald dome?”

“Now, now, A.R.,” Griff warned, “you mustn’t speak disrespectfully of the departing comptroller. Remember, my young friend,” and here he looped one thumb through an imaginary suspender, spreading his legs wide and assuming an oldtimer-to-newcomer pose, “that the likes of George Kurz are the foundation, the very foundation stone, of Julien Kahn, Fashion Shoes. Remember, my young friend, that without this bulwark of intelligence and imagination…”

“Horse manure,” Aaron said.

“Without,” Griff persisted, “this bulwark of intelligence and imagination, the entire industry, the en-tire industry may well fall into a state of total collapse, unguided by…”

“You want some coffee?” Aaron asked.

“Boy,” Griff said, seemingly hurt, “you interrupted me.”

“Do you want some coffee?”

“Wait until Marge comes in,” Griff said. He walked to the window where the company inventory calendar hung just over his desk. Beside the calendar, someone from Production had put up a sign reading HANG THE COST! LET SALES WORK IT OUT. The office wags had scribbled their usual comments all over the sign. Hang David Kahn. Hang wallpaper. Heng the Hengeman. And scrawled across the face of the sign, Oh hell, hang it all. He glanced briefly at the sign, and then whirled rapidly, stabbing an index finger at Aaron.

“Hey, man!” he said, “are you happy? Are you happy as hell?”

“I’m delirious,” Aaron said.

“Let’s go split a magnum of champagne.”

“Let’s go split a few cups of coffee.”

“All right,” Griff said enthusiastically. “As soon as Marge gets here.”

They fell into a warm silence, sitting on the edges of their desks, listening to the hum of the factory below them. The factory had been on the job since eight that morning, and there was a certain luxury attached to hearing the sounds of toil and knowing that their own labor had not yet begun. They seemed to sense too, on this morning, a happiness pounding beneath the factory’s effort. They sensed it humming through Prefitting and Lasting, sensed it vibrating ecstatically all the way down to Packing and Shipping. This was the day, the machines sang. This was the day George Kurz got flipped out of his flabby flaccid fanny.

“I can’t wait,” Aaron said. “I know I’m a morbid bastard, but I can’t wait.”

“I’m going to applaud,” Griff said. “Kurz is going to stick out his hand for that final tender handclasp, and I’m going to start clapping, I swear to God.”

He heard the click of high heels in the outside corridor, and he turned his head quickly. Marge Gannon breezed into the office like an assault wave at Anzio, her short blond hair bobbing at the nape of her neck, her green eyes sparkling.

“Good morning, good morning,” she chanted, and then she stopped dead in her tracks, looked over her shoulder, and whispered, “Has it happened yet?”

“Not yet,” Aaron said.

“Good,” she answered. She threw her coat onto her desk and then pulled off her gloves and put them and her purse into the top drawer. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “I wrote a poem for G.K.,” she said. “I wrote it on my own time, and I’m not even charging the firm for it.”

“Let’s hear it,” Aaron said.

“Steady, boy,” she answered. She was wearing a woolen suit, the ruffles of a blouse showing at her throat. Her feet were encased in a pair of Julien Kahn’s caramel calf pumps, selling in retail outlets for $22.95, but which she’d picked up from Mauro in Wholesale Adjustment for six dollars and some change because one shoe had a slight damage. She wore the shoes extremely well, for, whereas Marge was a small girl with only an average figure, she had been endowed with splendid legs. It was Marge’s contention that such legs should not be wasted on a typist’s job. Typists were a dime a dozen, but good legs were hard to come by. And good legs in a fashion house should understandably be utilized for the modeling of shoes, or so she reasoned, and so she showed off her legs at every possible opportunity.

Griff did not entirely disagree with her reasoning. He had tried, on his various sorties to the Chrysler Building Sales Offices, to generate some interest in Marge Gannon and her really, remarkable under-pinnings. But each time he’d mentioned her possibilities, he’d been brushed off with a Sales-to-Factory pat on the back. He had not, in all truth, been sorry. Marge was a damned good typist, and her determination to exhibit her legs, which — let’s face it — were really and truly superb legs, incomparable legs, pinup-girl legs, damned exciting legs when you got right down to them, did a lot toward adding a certain amount of class and distinction to the Cost Department. It also added a lot of loiterers from every other department in the factory, people who allegedly came in to chat, but who really came to admire the crossed legs and exposed knees behind Marge Gannon’s desk, Marge enjoyed the audience. She knew her legs were good, and she knew any prospective employer would adore having them adorn his offices, at possibly twice the salary Julien Kahn was paying her. But she dangled the carrot of self-delusion before her pert Irish nose, and the carrot was stamped MODEL, and the dream was most appealing to her, and dammit! what better place to make a start than at one of the top fashion houses in the country?

She plumped her shapely bottom down on Aaron’s desk, crossed her legs, jiggled one aristocratically shod foot, and reached into the pocket of her jacket for the poem she’d created. She unfolded the sheet of paper with a good deal of pomp. She cleared her throat.

“Come on, already,” Aaron said.

“Don’t get nervous,” Marge answered. “If you’re nervous, watch the pretty legs. They’ll soothe you.”

“It’s the pretty legs are making me nervous,” Aaron said, smiling.

“Fresh,” Marge said, and she made an attempt to pull her skirt down over her knees, but the skirt somehow resisted and she shrugged and went on to more important matters.

“To Our Beloved Comptroller, George Kurz,” she read.

“Hear, hear,” Aaron said.

“Now hush,” Marge said. She jiggled her foot once more, cleared her throat again, and began reading the poem.

“Say, that’s…” Aaron started.

“There’s more,” Marge said.

“Let her finish,” Griff said, smiling.

Aaron and Griff burst out laughing simultaneously. Aaron slapped the top of his desk, and Marge basked in the accolade of approval.

“Read it to him!” Aaron said. “When he comes around, read the damn thing to him. Oh, God, read it to him, Marge.”

“Should I, Griff?” she asked seriously.

“Well…”

“Why not?” Aaron wanted to know. “Do it, Marge, do it.”

“I,” Griff said slowly, “don’t think so.”

“I don’t think so either,” Marge said, sliding off the desk. “But, tell the truth, don’t you think I should be writing copy for the Advertising Department?”

“I thought you wanted to model,” Griff said.

“I do,” Marge answered.

She walked to her desk, took a mirror from her purse, and studied her mouth. It was a full mouth, with a pouting lower lip, and it still carried all the lipstick she’d expertly applied before leaving her apartment that morning. Satisfied, she put the mirror back into the bag and closed the desk drawer again.

“We’re going down for an important conference,” Griff said.

“Okay,” Marge answered.

“If there are any calls…”

“Who’s finally going A — way, A — way,” Marge quoted, and then burst out laughing, throwing her head back, swinging her chair around, and extending her legs as she rocked on her backside. Aaron looked at Griff and Griff looked at Aaron, and then both men looked at the incredible legs once more before leaving the office and heading down for the lunch counter on the ground floor.

The call from Boris Hengman came at one o’clock that afternoon. Griff said, “I’ll get it, Marge,” picking up the receiver. “Cost,” he said. “Griffin here.”

“Griffie?” Hengman asked. “Is dot you, boy?”

“Hello, Boris,” Griff said, smiling at the thick accent which was mimicked all over the factory. The accent, coupled with Hengman’s spasmodic outbursts of temper, had earned him the nickname “The Hengman.” The term was sometimes used affectionately and sometimes not so affectionately. Hengman was the factory supervisor and as such could really play the hangman whenever he wanted to.

“Griffie, you busy maybe?”

“Not too,” Griff said. “Can I help you, Boris?”

“Can he halp me?” Hengman said to himself. “Can he halp me, he esks. Griffie, you know dis Titenic Shoe?”

“Yes,” Griff said. “What about it?”

“What abott it, he esks. I got now here in d’ottside office a young men from Titenic. All the way from Gudgia, he comes. He says he’s gung be here for ah while, and he wants I should show him ahround d’fectory. Meshugah.”

“From Titanic, you say?”

“Sure, what alse? So my hends are tied, Griffie. I got work here up to my ess, and here comes a snotnose from Gudgia, I’m supposed to drop ever’ting and snep to attention. Dis I ken’t do at d’moment.”

“So?”

“So who knows d’fectory like nobody’s business, I esk myself. Who stotted in d’Shipping Room end worked opp his way, I esk myself. Who’s d’ideal men for dis partic’lar slop detell?”

“Who indeed?” Griff said sourly.

“Raymond Griffin, dot’s who,” Hengman said. “So I’m sanding him opp t’ you.”

“Thanks a million,” Griff said.

“He nids, also, office spess. So I’m thinking maybe you end Erron you could maybe mekk room for him in your office while he stays here, okay, Griffie?”

“How long will he be staying?” Griff asked.

“Do I know? Does anybuddy tell me notting? I’m gung cull Chrysler soon as I get off d’phone with you. Den I’ll see what dis whole ting is abott, you follow me, Griffie?”

“I follow you,” Griff said. “What’s his name?”

“Who? Oh, this Gudgia guy. McQued.”

“Who?”

“McQued. Jafferson McQued.”

“Jefferson McQuade?”

“Sure, dot’s what I said. Be nize to him, Griffie. Dis is Gudgia end Titenic we’re dealing with, you follow?”

“I follow.”

“I think maybe he snoops ahround ah little end then goes back don South, let’s hope so.”

“When’s he coming up?” Griff asked.

“I’ll sand him right ahway. Be nize, Griffie.”

“I’ll be nize,” Griff said.

“Good boy. You’re ah good boy, Griffie.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll cull Chrysler. So lung.”

“So long,” Griff said, hanging up. He stared at the phone disconsolately, and then shrugged. He had grown used to these tour requests from Hengman. Whenever a class of squealing high-school fashion students came to the factory to “see how a fashion shoe was made,” the guiding job was passed on to Griff. True, he probably did know the entire factory operation better than any man working for Julien Kahn. In his slow rise to head of the Cost Department, he had worked on almost every floor of the building learning the business from top to bottom as the Kahns tried to find him a niche suited to his talents. He had even worked in the Sales Offices for a while, making him unique in that he understood the selling end as well as the problems of production. The job that had taught him most about the operation had been that of tracer. He’d worked directly for Hengman, checking the production-schedule control board against the actual production of the shoes. He’d rushed from floor to floor, pushing priority shoes through the factory, finding out why a particular lot had not yet left Lasting, or why another lot was still in the drying machines, learning each step of the process as he went along. If Raymond Griffin knew nothing else, he damn well knew how a shoe was made.

But squiring a batch of shapely virginal high-school girls through the building (amid whistling and catcalls from the men working the machines) was a little different from showing around a Georgian representative of Titanic Shoe Corporation of America. He realized abruptly that he knew very little about Titanic, and he suddenly wondered why they were sending up a man, and so fast on the heels of G.K.’s department. He knew the Georgians had infested the Chrysler Building suite, but somehow he had not expected them to bother with the factory. He realized this was faulty reasoning, because he knew the heart of any company was the manufacturing end, but he had deluded himself up to now, and he felt a strange sort of panic while awaiting the Georgian.

He wrangled with his thoughts and decided he was making a mountain out of a molehill. This would probably be, as Hengman had suggested, a short inspection tour, after which Jefferson McQuade would sneak back down to the land of the Dixie Cup.

He calmed himself, and then his panic instantly returned when he heard footsteps down the hallway. He began straightening his desk, and Marge glanced at him curiously, and he wished Aaron were in the office, where the hell was Aaron, and then Benny Pollack walked in.

“Oh,” he said, sighing, “hello, Benny.”

“Hello, handsome,” Benny answered. Benny was foreman of the Lasting Department, a job which required infinite patience and skill. He came into the office wearing his shop apron now, smelling of the compo cement which smothered the atmosphere in his end of the building. Benny, even though his last name was Pollack, was called Benny Compo by everyone in the factory.

“So what’s on your mind?” Griff asked, glancing at the door.

“Nothing. I stopped next door to pick up my pay envelope, and I thought I’d drop in to say hello. What’s the matter, you antisocial?”

Griff smiled. Foremen, unlike the workers who were paid right on the factory floor where their envelopes were distributed by a policeman-accompanied young lady, came directly to the cage in Payroll for their weekly salaries. He had grown used to Benny Compo’s visits, but now, expecting the Georgian, he looked at Benny uneasily, and then he glanced again at the open doorway.

Benny caught the glance. “You expecting someone?” he asked.

“Well, yes.”

“Someone important?”

“From Georgia,” Griff said, nodding.

“Titanic?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Benny thought this over a moment. “Well, I’ll take off then, huh, Griff? Titanic, huh?”

“Yop.”

“Mmm. Well, I’ll see you, Griff.”

He smiled and waved, backing out of the office and almost colliding with the man who stood in the doorway. Benny mumbled something hastily, and then fled down the corridor. The man in the door frame smiled and then looked into the office inquisitively.

He was certainly the most impressive-looking man Griff had ever seen. He filled the door frame with his body, making Griff feel short, somehow, even though he knew he stood at an even six feet. The man was at least six-four, magnificently built, wearing an oxford-gray suit that seemed inadequate across the breadth of his shoulders. He was the kind of man Griff automatically pictured in dungarees and T-shirt, hauling in sail on a yacht, laughing at the sun, his muscles rippling with sinuous grace. He had straight blond hair, bleached brighter by the sun at the left-hand part, combed simply to the right with no attempt to conceal its straightness, no bid for a frivolous pompadour or fingermade wave. His face was lean and tanned, with high bronzed cheekbones and a narrow mouth, a straight nose rushing up to meet blond eyebrows and steel-gray eyes. A white button down shirt went with the gray suit, and a silk gold-and-black striped tie was pinned to the shirt with a small gold fleur-de-lis clasp.

Griff had never given much consideration to his own looks. He knew he was not handsome in the movie-star tradition, and there were mornings — when a thick beard came between him and his mirrored reflection — when he considered himself downright ugly. He knew he had black hair and brown eyes, and he knew that his nose was straight, and he sensed that his mouth was fairly decent as mouths went, with perhaps too thin an upper lip. He weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, and he’d have liked to weigh a hundred and ninety or so, but he’d always felt comfortable in his body, and he’d never been really unhappy with his face.

The man standing in the door frame, though, made him feel suddenly inadequate. The man standing there was a toothpaste ad, and a body-building ad, and a well-dressed man ad. The man standing there looked as if he’d be equally at home with an elephant gun or a martini glass in his hands. He blotted out the door frame, and he blotted out the corridor beyond the door, and he damn near overpowered the office with sheer physical strength.

“Mr. Griffin?” he asked.

There was just the faintest trace of a Southern accent in his voice, not a distortion of speech at all, simply a mellowing of tone, a softening of delivery.

“Yes,” Griff said, rising, wanting suddenly to make himself taller. “I’m—”

“Jefferson McQuade, sir,” the man said, smiling and stepping into the room. He walked to Griff’s desk, taking the long graceful strides Griff had always associated with baseball players. He extended his hand, taking Griff’s hand in a firm, warm grip. “I’m very happy to know you, sir,” he said.

“How do you do?” Griff said pleasantly. Marge had looked up inquisitively from her typewriter, and she kept staring at McQuade now, her lips slightly parted, as if Apollo had magically appeared in a burst of sunlight. Griff wondered about the protocol of the situation. Did you introduce a typist to the Titanic representative? He worried his lip for a moment and then said, “Marge, this is Mr. McQuade. From Titanic Shoe in Georgia. Mr. McQuade, Marge Gannon.”

“How do you do?” Marge said, still overwhelmed by his presence.

McQuade smiled graciously. “Happy to know you, Miss Gannon,” he said. ‘He made a very slight bow from the waist, which somehow did not look silly on him. He straightened up then and said, “I certainly hope I’m not interrupting any important work. I know what a nuisance visitors are, and I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“No, not at all,” Griff said. He was beginning to feel a little more at ease. McQuade generated an easygoing warmth and politeness which was infectious and thoroughly pleasing.

“Well, that’s awfully good of you, Mr. Griffin. You lie very graciously.” He smiled again, his lips pulling back over dazzling white teeth. Griff returned the smile, suddenly liking McQuade. “I wouldn’t have troubled you, really, but Hengman tells me that you probably know the factory better than he does, and I certainly appreciate your willingness to make me feel at home. Everyone in Mr. Hengman’s office was very kind to me.”

“Well…” Griff said, not knowing what else to say, wondering why McQuade played the role of the poor relation. Didn’t he know he was the man from Titanic? Didn’t he know every courtesy would most naturally be extended to him?

“I rather imagine,” McQuade said, as if he were reading Griff’s mind, “that there’s been a good deal of anticipation here since the merger. We prefer to think of it as a merger, Mr. Griffin, a consolidation, rather than a… an invasion, so to speak.” He smiled, as if talking about this were painful and embarrassing. “Titanic Shoe is… well… something like a bridegroom, and this merger with Julien Kahn is a little like taking home a bride, do you see?”

“Yes,” Griff said, smiling.

“So,” McQuade said, spreading his tanned hands, “to make a long story longer, there really should be no anxiety here in the factory. We all work for Titanic now, you and I, everyone, and I can assure you it’s a wonderful outfit. For the most part, things will go on running here just the way they’ve been running. As a matter of fact, there’s quite a bit we’ll have to learn from you people who are actually running the factory. After all, this is our first venture into the fashion world. Up to now, we’ve done mostly men’s shoes and casuals. We’ve done our job well, but this is a totally new experience for us.” He paused, smiling. “End of commercial.”

“Well,” Griff said, “I’m sure you’ll find it—”

“In other words,” McQuade interrupted gently, “I’ll try to get underfoot as little as possible. Mr. Hengman said you might give me office space, and anything you can dig up will suit me fine. One of these desks, perhaps.” He looked around the office, and then pointed. “Is that one occupied?”

“Oh, that’s Aaron’s,” Griff said.

“Aaron?”

“Aaron Reis, my assistant. He’s out of the office right now.”

“I see,” McQuade said. “Well, any desk will do.” He smiled genially. “I see there are only three desks, though. I feel something like an unexpected guest for dinner.”

“I think we can get one in from another department,” Griff said. “Marge, do you think that could be arranged?”

“Yes, certainly,” she said. “I’ll do that right now.”

“Well, there’s no great rush,” McQuade said.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Marge answered. She swung her legs out from under the desk and then started to say, “Oh da—” cutting herself off before she finished the phrase, but not cutting off the quick motion of her hand which pulled her skirt back over her knees. She studied the sleek smoothness of her nylons, and then smiled up at Griff. “Just lucky,” she said. “Thought sure I had a run.”

McQuade glanced at her legs cursorily, and then turned away in seeming disinterest, as if good legs were flashed at him all the time. “You might try some scotch tape on the kneehole of the desk,” he suggested pleasantly. “Around the edges. It covers splinters.”

“Why, thank you,” Marge said, smiling at him. She left her skirt up over her knees for a moment, and then shoved it down and stood up, trotting past McQuade and out of the office, her high heels clicking. Griff noticed the exaggerated swing of her backside, and he was momentarily surprised. He had not, before this, attributed any particular amount of sexuality to Marge. He knew, of course, that she was a woman, and he knew about her legs, but he and Aaron — like a pair of Roman senators with the Venus de Milo in their garden — had more or less grown accustomed to the splendor. On the other hand, he had never seen Marge wiggle her bottom with such determination, and he mentally stacked up his own attributes against those of Jefferson McQuade, forced finally to admit that Marge hadn’t had any real incentive for buttock jiggling before this. He lessened the shock of comparison by telling himself that Marge was a smart girl who knew how to butter a slice of bread. McQuade was a most nutritious slice, no denying it, but he was also a representative of Titanic Shoe. Titanic was now boss. If there was the slightest possibility of someone being able to put in a good word for Marge’s gams, Marge wasn’t going to let that possibility pass by without having exhibited her ankle and calf and knee, and perhaps a little bit of her shapely thigh.

“Well, if you want to take a look at the factory,” he said, “why don’t we get started right now?”

“If you’ve nothing important—” McQuade began.

“No, nothing at all,” Griff lied, thinking of the orders covering six thousand pairs of shoes on his desk, orders waiting for pricing, unable to go into production until he priced them. “I just want to leave a note for Aaron, though, so he won’t think I’ve absconded with the company’s funds.”

McQuade smiled. “Surely.”

Griff took a memo slip from his desk. The memo carried an inscription which the stationery buyer undoubtedly felt would humorously spur on the staff to greater productive efforts. It read: ALWAYS SAY KAHN. NEVER SAY KAHN’T. Beneath the inscription, he scrawled: “A man from Titanic is here. Showing him factory now. En garde! Griff.”

He put the note under the inkwell on Aaron’s desk, and then said, “All right, let’s go.”

“Fine,” McQuade said. “I really appreciate this.”

They walked to the elevators, and after Griff had pressed the DOWN button he said, “Two elevators here, passenger and freight. We use both in the morning when the factory people are all arriving, and at night when they go home, to handle the rush.”

“I see,” McQuade said.

“Otherwise, the freight elevator handles the racks that are constantly moving from floor to floor. We’re on the ninth floor now, and all our offices are up here, except Mr. Hengman’s. His is down on the fourth floor, as you know.”

“Yes,” McQuade said.

“The actual factory begins on the eighth floor, and that’s where our operation begins, too, working its way down to the ground floor and the shipping platform. Well, you’ll see as we work our way through.”

“Slow elevator,” McQuade said, almost to himself.

“What?”

“The elevator,” McQuade said. “Does it generally take so long for…?”

“Oh,” Griff said. “Oh, no, not usually.” He stabbed impatiently at the DOWN button. “No, this is very unusual. There must be a holdup on one of the floors.”

“I see,” McQuade said, and then he smiled disarmingly.

“I’ll show you the Cutting Room first, because that’s where the shoe is started. Understand, of course, that these are not actually ‘rooms’ in the generally accepted sense of the word. That is, there are no walls enclosing any one operation — except for the Leather Room and the Repair Department.”

“Yes,” McQuade said thoughtfully. “I’ve… ah… been in factories before.” He grinned boyishly. “Titanic owns quite a few of them.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t know how much you knew about… here’s the elevator now.”

The doors opened, and they stepped inside.

“Eight, Max,” he said, and Max nodded and looked at McQuade quickly, and then closed the doors just as quickly.

“No uniforms?” McQuade asked.

“Sir?”

“Uniforms. On the elevator operators,” McQuade said, his eyes looking surprised.

“Oh, no,” Griff answered. “The elevators are all run by the Maintenance Department, Mr. McQuade. We… well, this is a factory. I mean… did you mean uniforms? Gold braid and such?”

“I suppose it is a somewhat stereotyped idea,” McQuade said, smiling at his own foolishness.

“Well,” Griff said, liking McQuade more and more, “There’s really no need for such pomp here, you know. The Sales Offices are a different thing.”

“Yes,” McQuade said, nodding.

Max threw open the doors and said, “Eight, Mr. Griffin,” and Griff looked at him peculiarly, but Max did not crack a smile. McQuade stepped out onto the floor, and Griff followed.

There was suddenly activity everywhere around them. There had been a quiet buzz in the elevator, the pulse beat of the factory, but that buzz became a rush of sound as they stepped onto the floor. Stretching across the floor as far as they could see were sewing machines, and behind each machine was a girl working quickly and busily. The sounds on the floor mingled, the hum of machinery and the hum of voices, the hum of activity and rush. Racks on wheels, looking like mobilized bookcases, stood alongside each machine, stood near the elevators, stood haphazardly scattered across the floor,’ forming barriers at some spots, impassible dead ends, long narrow corridors elsewhere. Each rack carried stacks and stacks of cut leather and fabric, rubber-banded together and tagged with white or pink slips.

“This is Prefitting,” Griff explained. “I want to show you the Leather Room first, and then the Cutting Room. We’ll come back to this later. Want to follow me?”

“All right,” McQuade said. An excited look had come into his eyes, igniting the gray. The excitement spread to his mouth and even to his shoulders. He licked his lips briefly, took a last look at the sewing machines, and then followed Griff, unaware of the head turnings and sudden conversation at the sewing machines behind him.

“After a shoe is priced,” Griff said over his shoulder, raising his voice in competition with the sudden bustle, “Production makes out a ticket on it. We call this the work ticket, and it outlines every operation that must go into that particular pair of shoes, the leather needed, the fabric, the buckles or trim, the piping; in other words—”

“Every single pair of shoes gets a work ticket?” McQuade asked. Griff looked at him, seeing his excitement.

“No, no, every lot does,” he said. “A lot is fifteen pairs.”

“Yes, I know,” McQuade said, swiveling his head to look at one of the sewing machines.

“A run is something else again,” Griff said, not at all sure that McQuade did know. “A run can be any number of lots, do you see? But every fifteen pair of shoes must have a different case number. A fifteen-pair lot will be numbered, hypothetically, three hundred dash six twelve. The next fifteen pairs will all be numbered three hundred dash six thirteen, do you see? Every factory last has a number, and every shoe we’ve ever made has a style number. But the case number is the important thing. Given the case number, we can trace any shoe this factory ever made.”

“I see,” McQuade said, nodding.

“The Leather Room is up ahead here.” He led McQuade past the benches and benches of cutters, benches against the windows, and benches flanking aisles. At each bench, a man worked busily.

“These men are all pieceworkers,” Griff explained. “That’s why they rush so. They do a good job, though. Here’s the Leather Room.”

He stopped in the doorway where a wire grille partition divided the Leather Room from the Cutting Room.

“The leather and fabrics come up here from our big leather room on the main floor. You’ll see a lot of pastels and patents and fabrics right now because we’re still cutting our spring line. Naturally, you see some of those all year round because we’re always doing resort work, too. But you won’t find, for example, much alligator or lizard at this time of the year. Those are mostly fall and winter wear, and we won’t be cutting those for a while yet.”

“Of course,” McQuade said, standing in the doorway, his wide shoulders almost touching either side of the frame.

“These boys you see,” Griff went on, “are getting the materials for the cutters. When the work ticket comes down from Production, it indicates just what materials are to go into the shoe. Here, I’ll show you.” He reached out and caught one of the runners by the elbow. “Jimmy,” he said, “may I see that ticket, please?”

“Yes, Mr. Griffin,” the boy said and then he glanced quickly at McQuade, his eyes wide. McQuade smiled at him, and the boy seemed to regain some of his composure.

“See,” Griff said, “this is a work ticket.” The ticket was a pink card. “Everything is copied onto this ticket from the original order blank our territory salesmen sent in, after I price the order, you understand. Here, take a look at it. Up here in the left-hand corner, the pairage: fifteen. That means there’s only one lot in this particular run. Pattern, well, this is the pattern number, Mr. McQuade, I’ll show you how that’s utilized in a moment: 4517. And right here is the date: 2/26. That’s today, the day we start production on this run of shoes. And here’s the last number, and the style number, and stamped here in the right-hand corner is the case number, 363–201, and alongside that, the price of the shoe, thirteen seventy-five. That’s only half the ticket, you see. The other half has all the operations listed in detail, and each piece-worker clips off the section of the ticket pertaining to his operation and saves it. He turns those in to his foreman, and he gets paid on the basis of the number of tickets he’s clipped, each ticket representing so many cents. The Payroll Department tallies that. When this ticket finally comes back upstairs to me, I’ll see only this half of it. The other half will have been clipped away as the shoe progresses through the factory. Do you understand?”

“This left-hand side will survive,” McQuade said, “is that it?”

“Yes, yes. Now, look here at this left-hand side again. Beneath the information we just read, we have this information,” and he held out the card:

McQuade looked at the space on the ticket.

“This is information for the Leather Room primarily. When they see this, they know the cutters will cut a vamp and quarter from Peking Blue shantung. The ‘eight hundred sixty-one’ is just our house number for the fabric. Every material we use has a house number. Clear?”

“Very,” McQuade said, smiling. “You really do know the factory, don’t you, Mr. Griffin?”

“Well,” Griff said, smiling modestly. “Here now, right under that, it says the following:”

“I see,” McQuade said, studying the ticket.

“This just tells them what materials to cut for the inside of the shoe. The lining will be white, with a leather vamp lining. The backstay…” Griff paused. “You know, I’m talking as if you know what this is all about, and perhaps making playshoes and men’s shoes is entirely different — even in terminology. Shall I give you a rundown?”

“If you like,” McQuade said.

“Well… let’s see, hardly know where to begin. The vamp. Picture a shoe, and then divide it in half, across the instep. The forward half, where your toes are, is the vamp. From there back and around the heel is the quarter. The section where the instep is, we sometimes call the shank because… oh hell, I imagine it’s the same with all shoes.”

“Well, more or less,” McQuade said vaguely.

“I was telling you about the backstay. It’s a piece of leather put into the quarter. That keeps the shoe on the foot, in addition to the counter.”

McQuade blinked.

“There’s something you wouldn’t know about in casuals,” Griff said. “A counter. It’s just a hard piece of leather which is put into the shoe so that the quarter hugs the foot, and the shoe won’t stretch and slip off after a few wearings. You’ll find a counter on each side of the quarter of any quality shoe.”

“Thank you, sir,” McQuade said, executing a small smiling bow.

Griff smiled, too. “Not at all. Here, back to the ticket again. This tells them which sock lining to cut, and here are the pattern numbers to be pulled for cutting vamp and quarter, and vamp-and-quarter fleece, and… oh, everything’s on this ticket; see, here are the instructions for the Fitting Department, ‘Grograin binding on vamp and quarter,’ with ‘Trade accessories number thirty-two-B midnight blue,’ that may be a little bow or a sprig of flowers or a bell or whatever-the-hell; well, I’m sure this ticket doesn’t interest you, but it’ll give you some idea, anyway.” He handed the ticket back to the boy.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” McQuade said.

Jimmy nodded and rushed off to gather up his materials.

“And from here,” McQuade said, “the leather or fabric is taken to the cutters, is that right?”

“Yes, exactly. Do you see those boys and girls running around in the aisles? They’re pulling patterns from the drawers in the benches. By the time the leather is brought to the cutter, the patterns are waiting for him, too, and he can get right to work on the job. Remember the pattern number I showed you on the ticket? Well, that pattern is pulled from the drawers there. It’s made out of a hard cardboard composition, bound in brass so the cutters’ knives won’t ruin it after one or two uses.”

McQuade nodded.

“Well, come on over. The older cutters are working on the right, over there. They handle all the expensive materials, where mistakes would be costly. Like Spanish Sapphire silk, for example. We couldn’t trust that to an apprentice cutter. Or even lace, for that matter. Cutting reptiles is a different story. When we’re cutting alligator, say, we put the men on time. We can’t afford the rushing that accompanies piece-work, not with reptile skins as high as they are. Now, the apprentice cutters are over here. They’re cutting linings and fleece and backstays and sock linings and cushions and some of the cheaper fabrics for uppers. They’re not as good as our older cutters, you see, but they learn by experience. Come on over and we’ll watch one.”

They worked their way over through an aisle, dodging the runners who were carrying armloads of fabric and leather, dodging the boys and girls who were busily extracting patterns from the drawers.

Griff stopped alongside one of the cutters, a muscular boy who stood almost as tall as McQuade, black hair curling on his head and in the open V of his shirt collar. His sleeves were rolled up, and his sinewy arms were covered with the same dense black growth.

“Hello, Charlie,” Griff said. “How goes it?”

Charlie Fields looked up quickly. “Oh, hello, Mr. Griffin,” he said. Griff was surprised at the formality because he knew Charlie well, and they’d been on a first-name, coffee-drinking, dirty-joke-telling basis for a good long while now. Charlie glanced uneasily at McQuade then, and Griff suddenly got the picture. He remembered Max’s cool formality in the elevator, and Jimmy’s nervousness just now in the Leather Room, and then he remembered telling Benny Compo about the visitor from Georgia. Benny had probably passed the word to the other foremen, and the word had sped along the factory floors. Titanic is here; on your toes! And, forgetting his own earlier panic, Griff found the factory reaction somewhat amusing. Jefferson McQuade was turning out to be a hell of a nice guy, and there was certainly no reason to fear him.

“Charlie,” he said, “would you mind showing Mr. McQuade that knife you’re using?”

“Not at all,” Charlie said nervously. He picked up the knife from the cutting bench and handed it to Griff handle-first. The handle looked like the wooden handle of a manual can opener, round and squat. The blade was a short, hooked piece of curving metal, looking like an extended half moon.

“This is razor-sharp,” Griff said. “It has to be in order to cut through some of the leathers that come out of the Leather Room.”

McQuade-glanced at the knife and then took it from Griff, hefting it on the palm of his hand, as if he were choosing a weapon for a duel. “It looks sharp enough,” he said respectfully.

“What are you cutting, Charlie?” Griff asked.

“Sock linings,” Charlie said. “Shall I cut one for you, Mr. Griffin?”

“Would you, please?”

McQuade handed the knife back to Charlie, and Charlie picked up the brass-bound pattern of the sock lining and placed it on the pale blue fabric. Quickly and expertly, he traced the pattern with the sharp edge of the cutting knife. He pulled the pattern away then and lifted the gracefully feminine sock lining from the bench, leaving the imprint of the sole in the remainder of the fabric, like a wet footprint on a blue tile floor.

“Simple as that,” Griff said. “Thanks, Charlie.” He turned back to McQuade and said, “All of those people are doing the same thing, cutting. Come along, will you?”

McQuade turned his head over his shoulder and smiled. “Thanks for your trouble, Charlie,” he said, and followed Griff.

“So, that’s the Cutting Room,” Griff said, walking over toward the sewing machines, “and here’s Prefitting, where all these girls are working. They do the very basic putting together, the elementary stuff, stitching vamp to quarter, and upper to lining, oh, all the preliminary work before the material goes down to Fitting on the seventh floor. Come on over and take a look.” He led McQuade to one of the sewing machines, and the girl at it looked up and then lowered her eyes quickly. Her hands fumbled with the shoe upper as she placed it in position under the needle, ready to stitch it to the lining. McQuade watched attentively for a moment, and Griff said, “That’s all there is to it. We can take the stairway down, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” McQuade said.

He took him down to Fitting, and he heard his own voice droning on, explaining, explaining. McQuade’s face became expressionless. At regular intervals, he asked interested, pertinent questions, or nodded, or said, “I see,” or “Of course,” or “I understand,” or “Yes,” or “Uh-huh,” but his face remained expressionless throughout the tour.

“…putting in the steel shank here in this department. You’ll never find this in a cheap shoe, Mr. McQuade. This piece of steel in its sleeve is put into the breasting of the shoe here, so that the shoe won’t snap in two some day. Then this cork is glued on either side of the shank, to level it off so that the heel and sole can be…”

“Yes, I see.”

The smells of the factory assailed their nostrils, a new smell, a different smell for each department, the smells Griff would never tire of, the smells he loved. The smell of good rich leather, and the smell of benzine, and the smell of rubber cement, and the smell of ether, and the smell of compo, and the smell of machines and men.

“…is where the sole is glued to the shoe. You’ll see here on the assembly line these leather cushions which inflate with air and press the glued sole tightly to the inner sole. The last, you understand, is still in the shoe during all these operations. The last is not pulled until later. You saw how the uppers were tacked to the last upstairs, remember? That machine that spits tacks into the leather? Well, that last is not removed until the shoe…”

“Of course.”

And the sights of the factory. The fellow doing pinking, with a collection of Marilyn Monroe pinups behind his machine, arranged with painstaking care on two large sheets of cardboard, the most famous pose placed prominently in the center. The old newspapers tacked on the wall behind a machine in the Stock-fitting Department: YANKEES WIN. — IT’S IKE! — SKIRTS GO HIGHER THIS YEAR. The nude calendars everywhere. In Assembly, a calendar exhibiting a naked girl with really remarkable mammary glands, a calendar distributed by GRAINGER’S HARDWARE COMPANY, and on either side of the girl’s magnificent body, the penciled comment: “Some hardware!” The sink near the stairway leading down from Lasting, a dirty, filth-encrusted. sink above which a crayoned sign warned: “Keep this sink clean; It is used by lasters and bed lasters. Thank you.” The union posters on every floor of the factory, the fire hoses in the hallways, the numbers on the racks, 15, 16, 17, announcing the priority each lot of shoes enjoyed, gaily printed on green, yellow, and pink cards.

And the people. The people of the factory. The people bent over glue pots, their fingers encrusted with the stuff. The people shoving leather soles into folding machines, the people stitching and the people sewing, and the people trimming and cutting and stamping and wiping and binding and cleaning and drying and tacking and pulling and talking and laughing; the Puerto Rican women with their full breasts in low-cut smocks, the sweat beaded on their breasts, the gold crosses dangling in the valley of shadow; the mental defective on the fourth floor whom one of the Kahns had hired out of generosity, pushing his racks full of shoes; the people clipping tickets, pink shreds and white shreds, shreds that meant money, one cent, or one cent four mills, or two cents, or two cents two mills, clipped from the work ticket and shoved into a bench drawer, or put into a cigar box, people doing their jobs quickly, adding up the cents, adding up the tenths of a cent; the man at the sanding machine, expertly smoothing the breasting of a shoe, his fingers wrapped in adhesive bandages to forestall any accidents; the man standing near the Muller machine, the machine inoperative, its wide doors open, its red bulb glowing, its leather hanging inside like sides of miniature beef in a butcher shop, waiting to be softened. The people, the people sweating and grinning, intent or indifferent, their laughter suddenly silenced whenever the man from Titanic walked through the floor.

“…man runs that flame over the finished shoe, trimming off all the hanging threads and whatnot.”

“Doesn’t the flame hurt the shoe?” McQuade asked.

“It can hurt it,” Griff said, “but this man knows his job.”

“I see.”

“This is really the manicuring department, you understand. The shoe is really finished for all intents and purposes here, dressed up, so to speak. There, see that fellow spraying those black kids with lacquer? He’s freshening up the shoe before it gets packed into its box.”

“Of course.”

And the sounds of the factory. The giant hum of the big machines, and the high soprano of the sewing machines; and the bell ringing over and over again when they were on the third floor, summoning someone to the foreman’s cage, and the telephone shrilling on the fifth floor; and the tacking machines spitting their tacks, clanging their tacks with a sudden rush, sticking the upper to the last; the whir of the drill in the Heeling Department, the bit sinking through the metal-lined hole in the last, penetrating into the wood of the heel, the screw with its open circular top following the drilled hole; the pneumatic hiss of inflated leather in the Soling Department; the radios on every floor; and the cackle of the old women, and the whispers of the young women, and the raucous laughter of the men; and the clash of the elevator doors, the rasping stealth of a cutting knife.

“…down the chute here into the Stock Room. We keep all our stock shoes here. And then through this door here is the Shipping Room, see those machines stapling the cartons shut there, and, oh, yes, Piping and Stripping is on this floor, too, a little factory of its own, where all the scraps from upstairs are made into…”

“I see.”

And finally it was all over. McQuade looked a little dazed, as if the three hundred and twelve operations that went into the building of a single pair of shoes had been a little too much for him to absorb. Griff could understand his bewilderment. He was exhausted himself. He suggested a cup of coffee and they made their purchases at the lunch counter and were heading for the room behind the counter when McQuade said, “Let’s take it up to the office, shall we?”

“Well, Mr. McQuade, we’re not allowed to have anything at our desks.”

“Nonsense,” McQuade said, smiling pleasantly. “Come along.”

They took the coffee up to Griff’s office, and Griff was not surprised to find a desk waiting for McQuade when they got there.

“Is it all right?” Marge asked.

“Yes, very nice, thank you, Miss Gannon,” McQuade said, moving toward Aaron’s desk. He sat on the edge of the desk, putting the coffee container down, looking around the office. Griff suddenly remembered the note he’d left for Aaron. It sat under the inkwell, not twelve inches from McQuade’s knee. He wet his lips nervously, anxiously.

“Has Aaron been back?” he asked Marge, glancing uneasily at the note.

“No, but he called in, Griff. He’s still checking those lizard and alligator samples for Guild Week.”

“Costing,” Griff explained to McQuade. “One or the other of us usually handles it, depending on who’s free.”

“I see,” McQuade said. His eyes fled over Aaron’s desk top, and a frown crossed his face, and Griff was certain he’d seen the note and its En garde! warning, a warning which seemed ridiculously overcautious now. Marge, who’d apparently read the note while Griff was gone, glanced at him apprehensively. McQuade sipped at his coffee, his blond eyebrows pulled into sharp wings, his gray eyes unreadable.

“Is there anything wrong, Mr. McQuade?” Griff asked. He did not want an open breach with McQuade, because he had honestly, come to like him during the tour of the plant. But if there was going to be any enmity over the note, he preferred bringing it into the open at once.

“This fellow,” McQuade said, snapping his fingers. “I forget which floor he’s on.”

“Which fellow?” Griff asked, suddenly relieved.

“The one with that little hot iron,” McQuade said. “The one who was burning those two holes on the bottom of the finished soles.”

“Oh, yes,” Griff said. “Our eagle-eyer.”

“Is that what you call him?” McQuade asked, amused.

“Yes.”

“Tell me, is that all he does?”

“Sir?”

“Your eagle-eyer. Does he sit there all day long with that iron and burn those tiny little holes on the bottom of each finished sole?”

Griff could not hide his surprise. He had spent more than three hours showing McQuade through the factory, twice as long as he usually took with the high-school classes. McQuade had seemed to be an intelligent observer, asking pertinent questions at every step of the operation, and Griff had been immensely gratified with the response. But now, in the quiet of the office, away from the clatter of the machinery, he had expected more questions, and he had honestly expected questions of a somewhat higher caliber. After all McQuade had seen, was he most interested in a man who burned infinitesimal holes on the bottom of a sole? Was this what had interested him most in the whole fantastic operation of building a fashion shoe?

“I… well… yes, that’s all he does,” Griff stammered. “He burns those two holes on each finished sole. Yes.”

“Why?” McQuade asked. He did not look up from his coffee.

“Why what, sir?” Griff asked.

“Why the holes?” McQuade said.

“Oh. Oh, I see. Well, sir,” Griff said, smiling, “there’s a pretty interesting story behind that. You see, before the industry began using cement on the shoe soles — remember, you saw the assembly belt downstairs where that leather cushion inflates and presses the glued sole to the inner sole?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, before the industry took to using cement, each shoe was hand-turned. That meant that the sole had to be tacked and then stitched to keep it in place. Frankly, we turned out a hell of a good shoe then, much better than we get with cement. You ask any of the old shoemakers on the floor, and they’ll tell you. Well, before the sole was stitched, it was tacked in three places. At the toe, in the center of the sole, and again where the instep breaks. Later, when the shoe was almost finished, those three small tacks were pulled. But they left three holes in the sole, three small holes, true, but three somewhat ugly holes. Someone got the idea of dressing up those holes, sort of ‘finishing’ them, to give the shoe a smoother look. The eagle-eyer came into existence then. He dotted each of those small holes with a small hot iron, finishing them, making them a part of the completed shoe. After a while, those three dots in the sole became associated with a quality shoe. When a woman turned over a shoe and spotted those three dots, she knew the shoe was a good one.”

“That’s very interesting,” McQuade said.

“Naturally, when we began using cement, there was no need for tacking the sole any more, and really no need for the dots, either. But milady had grown used to the dots, had come to look for them. We cut out the dot at the toe, figuring we’d save time and expense, but we left the other two dots, as a sort of quality shoe trademark.”

“Those dots, in other words, serve no real purpose.”

“Yes, they do,” Griff said. “In addition to identifying the shoe as a quality product, Mr. McQuade, we want that shoe to look as good underneath as it does on top. When you turn over a Julien Kahn shoe, you don’t just get a monotonous flat sole stretching out before your eyes. You get our eagle-eye treatment, a tiny dot on the center of the sole, and another just where the instep breaks. Those dots… well, they just break the monotony of the sole, that’s all.” He spread his hands wide. “Quality, Mr. McQuade.”

“You’re kidding me,” McQuade said softly.

“Sir?”

“I said you’re kidding me. You do hear well, Mr. Griffin?”

“Well… well, sure I do. No, I’m not kidding you, Mr. McQuade. That’s why those dots are burned into the sole. Those are the only reasons.”

“And is that all that fellow does?”

“Yes, that’s all.”

“Is he on piecework?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“How much is he paid?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. I can check with Payroll, if you like.”

McQuade smiled suddenly, looking up from his coffee container. The smile erupted all over his face, making him seem somehow larger than he actually was. “No, no need to do that, no need at all. Forget I even mentioned it, Mr. Griffin.” He slid off Aaron’s desk and walked to the desk Marge had requisitioned for him. “Say, this is certainly a good-looking desk, Miss Gannon. You people get things done in a hurry, don’t you?”

“I’m glad you like it,” Marge said. She smiled broadly.

“Oh yes, I do,” McQuade said. He rubbed his palm over the polished top of the desk, as if trying to absorb the veneer of it. He nodded abruptly then and went behind the desk, sitting in the swivel chair there. He seemed to dwarf everything with which he came into contact. His body seemed too big for the desk and certainly too big for the chair. “Today was quite an experience, Mr. Griffin. I don’t think I can thank you enough.”

“Oh, there’s no need to…”

“I’m afraid you think I’m an impossible incompetent, though. I must admit I was somewhat dazzled by the operation. You people are doing a tremendous job here, tremendous.” He nodded his head, and then touched the cleft in his chin with his forefinger, rubbing it thoughtfully, almost as if he were trying to erase an invisible spot. “It’s…” He left his chin suddenly, bringing his fingers together into a cathedral. “It’s a lot to absorb, all in one day. I hope you’ll forgive my seeming stupidity.”

He seemed waiting for Griff to contradict him. When Griff started to say, “Oh, no…” he interrupted.

“No, really, Mr. Griffin… say, do I have to keep calling you that? I hate formality with a vengeance. Miss Gannon calls you ‘Griff,’ I notice. Would it be all right if…?”

“Oh, certainly,” Griff said.

“All right, Griff,” McQuade said, “man to man. It’s one hell of a job tring to absorb the separate job each man does. One hell of a job. In a factory of this size… well, how many men would you say were in the operation, Griff?”

“About fifteen hundred,” Griff said.

“Well, there you are. And what’s our pairage per day right now, Griff?”

“We’ve been hitting twenty-six hundred,” Griff said.

“Yes, well, that’s a large operation, a large operation. So, I hope my ignorance can be excused.” He spread his hands wide, as if the entire thing were simply too big for him.

“I can understand how…”

“Now, put yourself in my position. Can I ask every man in the factory to submit a written summary of what he does? Hell, half these people probably can’t write their own names. Of course, the office is another thing again. How many people are there up here on the ninth floor, Griff?”

“About sixty, I suppose,” Griff said.

“Say, you know…” He paused, as if trying to get the idea straight in his mind. “Say, that isn’t a bad idea at all. Here, Griff, what do you think of it? It’d certainly make this job of understanding a lot simpler, a whole hell of a lot simpler. Suppose I asked Mr. Manelli, your new comptroller, to have each man on this floor submit a short summary of what he does?” He snapped his fingers. “I like that idea, I really do.”

“Well—” Griff started.

“Oh, just a brief summary,” McQuade interrupted. “Hell, I’m not teaching a course in English Composition. But something that will acquaint me with each man’s job, and nothing — God forbid — which will ever be used against anybody later on. Griff, I’m sincere when I say I’m not here to pry or spy.” He leaned over the desk, folding his large hands. “I want to get along with the people here. I want to do my job, that’s all. Look, I’m here to marry Titanic with Julien Kahn. I’m something of a minister, you might say, the Reverend Jefferson McQuade — Marryin’ Mac.” He laughed a short laugh and then sobered instantly. “I want to be friends, Griff. You don’t know how much I appreciate the time you gave me this afternoon. I know what a pain in the neck these damned requests can be, believe me. That’s why I think these summaries will be a good idea. Matter of fact, I think I’ll go talk to Mr. Manelli about them right this minute.”

He stood abruptly, unfolding his length, his height coming as a complete surprise after getting used to him sitting.

“In the meantime, Griff — if you will — you might have your department get started on those summaries, sort of get the jump on the rest of the floor. Nothing fancy, you understand, just a few words. And please, for God’s sake, don’t entertain any fears in respect to these summaries. I wish you’d pass that word along. As I told you, I only want them so that I can better acquaint myself with each man’s job. All right?”

He tossed his coffee container into a wastebasket and started for the door. At the door, he turned and said, “He’s right down the hall, isn’t he? Mr. Manelli, I mean?”

“Yes,” Griff said.

“Good. I probably won’t be back at all this afternoon, but I’ll see you at nine Monday morning. You might have those summaries ready for me by then, all right? Then we can talk a little more intelligently. And remember, please, no trepidation. No reason to feel…” He hesitated and his brow knotted, as if he were reaching for the appropriate words. “No reason to feel… well, as the French would say… en garde!” His eyes met Griff’s levelly. “Okay, Griff?”

He smiled pleasantly then, turned his back, and left the office.

Griff watched his departing back until it was no longer visible down the corridor. A smile crept onto his face. “Touché, McQuade,” he said aloud, and then he broke into quiet laughter.

Monday morning, March 1, came in with all the customary bluster of the lion. Griff arrived at the factory at eight fifty, parked the car, and then shoved his way against the strong winds which threatened to tear off his overcoat. He went up to the office and forewent his usual cup of coffee, deciding to get right to work on pricing the orders which had gone untended Friday during McQuade’s factory tour. He had already begun working when Marge came in and walked directly to his desk.

“Here’s my summary, boss,” she said.

She put a sheet of paper in the center of his desk. Halfway down the page, she had carefully typed the words: “I type.” Beneath those, in the lower right-hand corner, she had typed, “Sincerely, Margaret R. Gannon.”

“Brief and to the point,” she said. “Nothing flowery.”

Griff smiled. “All right,” he said, “where’s the legitimate one?”

“I can never trick you, can I?” Marge said. She took off her gloves and coat, and then fished the real summary from her purse. She brought it to Griff, and he glanced over the paragraph-long outline of her duties and then put it into the IN basket on his desk.

“What’d you think of him?” Marge asked.

“McQuade?”

“Yes.”

“I think I like him.”

“Really?” She seemed surprised. She took a mirror and lipstick brush from her purse and began repairing her mouth.

“Yes,” Griff said. “Shouldn’t I like him?”

“I don’t know,” Marge answered, preoccupied. “I imagine he’d give me an inferiority complex if I were a man. I don’t think I’d like… well, say Betty Grable… working at the desk opposite me.”

“He’s a good-looking guy, all right,” Griff said, nodding.

“He’s a superman,” Marge said, lowering her mirror. “He’s almost frightening in a way.”

“Oh, come on, Marge.”

“No, really, Griff. I think he’s the handsomest man I’ve ever met, and he’s well-spoken and loaded with charm, and he’s not above using a mild swear word every now and then, and he seems intelligent, although that may be part of his polish. He’s too perfect. It gives you the willies.”

“It doesn’t give me the willies,” Griff said, smiling. “Maybe our biological makeup…”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Marge said, but she turned her head away, avoiding his eyes.

“Well, I think he’s all right,” Griff said. “I don’t know how long he’s going to stay, but I’m sure he’ll give Julien Kahn a good shot in the arm, and Julien Kahn can use it. McQuade is one guy who’s not going to let any grass grow under his feet.”

Marge went to her desk and sat down behind the typewriter. “Well,” she said, “I imagine we’ll see.” She paused and looked over the papers on her desk. “I still haven’t finished this report.”

“And I’ve got to price these orders. That tour Friday knocked my schedule all to hell.”

“Back to the grist,” she said, sighing.

Their conversation ended abruptly as they both turned to the work before them. Griff knew his job well, and he was probably the only man in the factory who could labor over the pricing of an order without losing any time, appetite, or hair.

It was a pretty simple thing, of course, to price a standard model shoe. If the price did not instantly come to mind, there was always the price book to consult, and Griff frequently consulted it, his memory being good but not photographic. If an account requested a variation on a certain pattern, suede for example when the sample he’d seen had been in kid, Griff went to his files and pulled the cost card for that pattern. The cost card listed a detailed breakdown of cost for the sample shoe only, but it also listed surveys for that pattern in various substitute materials: suede, calf, fabric. When he knew how much suede the shoe would take, Griff had only to calculate the suede cost and substitute that for the kid cost, coming up with a new coat and subsequently a new price.

But there were times when even the cost card could not help him in repricing a variation an account called for. An open toe, for example, on a normally closed-toe, closed-back pump. The account out in Sioux City liked the pump the salesman was showing him, but open toes were going big for him this season. No, he didn’t like any of the open-toe patterns he’d seen. But damn, he did like that pump. Could he have it with an open toe? The salesman filled out the order, telling the account he’d see if it could be done. He wrote down the style number, and after that he put an X, and under that X= OT. If Sales approved the order, it was sent to Griff. When Griff saw that OT variation, he knew he could not go to his price book, and he knew he could not go to his cost cards. If the factory had never cut this particular variation, there was no bank of previous knowledge from which to draw. He was then forced to rely upon his intimate knowledge of each operation that went into the making of a shoe, visualizing the patterns that would be used, deducting so much for material, adding so much for labor. Except in rare cases like Posnansky’s black suede on Friday, where an outside estimate had been necessary, Griff could almost instantly gauge how much a variation from the basic pattern would cost, and he adjusted his price accordingly. If he ran into any trouble concerning the amount of material a variation would consume, he consulted Morris Davidoff and asked him to work out a survey with his graphs and charts. If he couldn’t figure what a certain operation would cost, he contacted Sal Valdero, the company’s Labor Man.

As a general rule, his department ran very smoothly. In most cases, when an order reached his desk, he jotted down the price in the lower right-hand corner, and then the orders were sent over to O’Herlihy in Production. Production copied the price onto the work ticket, alongside the final case number. When the shoe was completed, the Shipping Room attached a charge to the ticket, and both ticket and charge were sent up to Griff. He then checked his original price against the ever-changing price book. If his original price were correct, the charges were sent to IBM, and invoices were mailed on the same day the shoes were shipped.

If there had been any appreciable change in price, Griff immediately contacted Stiegman at the Chrysler Building, telling him of the changes and asking him to alter his future quotations. He then got up new price sheets for the salesmen, informing them of the new price. If the price was higher than that originally estimated, he couldn’t very well bill the immediate account at this newer, higher price. When an account had been told a pair of shoes would cost him thirteen sixty-five, he couldn’t be billed for fourteen dollars. Griff was well aware of this, so he generally let small cost increases ride as far as pricing went. A large increase was another thing again. A large increase, if ignored in pricing, could kill the company. In those cases, Griff contacted Sales and asked them to send off a diplomatic letter explaining the reasons for the price boost. If the account was willing to pay the higher price, fine. If the account wanted to be stubborn about it, he simply insisted that the acknowledgment of his order was, in effect, a contract, and he would pay only the price quoted in the terms of that contract.

In six weeks, the amount of time it took to run a shoe through the factory, a lot of changes in cost could occur. Other than increases or decreases in the actual material or labor costs, there were many other things to watch for. As the factory became more familiar with a shoe, they learned how to cut corners on it, how to save material here, how to cut out a full operation there. Conversely, problems sometimes cropped up which were not foreseen in the making and costing of the sample shoe. It was a difficult fence to straddle. Underpricing could ruin the company, and overpricing could have the same effect if the competition were offering the same product at a more reasonable price.

Costing and pricing were intimately linked, and Griff took neither of the jobs lightly. He knew how variable both were in the fashion shoe industry. He did his job well, and his job was to keep both the business and the customer happy.

There were orders for some six thousand pairs of shoes waiting to be priced on that Monday morning, and he worked at them rapidly and fastidiously. At nine-thirty, Aaron called in to say he’d gone directly into the factory and probably would not be up to the office all day. Jefferson McQuade had still not come into the Cost Department.

From one of the men working close to Manelli’s office, Griff learned that McQuade had been with the new comptroller since the beginning of the day and was, in fact, still there bending Joe’s ear. Griff was pleased with the news. As much as he had liked McQuade, they had still not reached the easy-friendship stage. There was a lot of pricing to do, and company manners would have held up the job, and Griff didn’t particularly feel like answering a lot of questions this morning. He immersed himself completely in the task, hardly speaking to Marge all morning, thoroughly absorbed with what he was doing.

At eleven-fifteen, the memo came from Manelli’s office.

It came in the interoffice envelope, the envelope with its printed face stating: “Office Communications Service. Do not seal or discard this until last line is used. Print clearly. Always state Department.” There were two names typed onto the lined face of the envelope.

Ray Griffin, Cost

Pat O’Herlihy, Production.

Griff took the envelope from the messenger boy, lifted the flap, and pulled out the memo. The memo read:

Griff automatically copied down the code words, and then signed the envelope alongside his name, putting the memo back into it, and handing the envelope to the messenger. When the boy was gone, he studied the code words again, and a frown crossed his forehead. He had priced orders for some three thousand pairs of shoes since 9:00 A.M. Those orders were stacked neatly on his desk now, waiting for delivery to the Production Department, where they would be transferred to work tickets. But if this memo were to be taken seriously…

My God, was he supposed to go over all those orders and substitute a batch of letters, erasing and whistling gaily as he went?

“What’s the matter?” Marge asked.

“Oh, this damn memo,” he said. He looked at the code words again. “I’m going to have to see Manelli.” He shook his head, shoved his chair back, and started for the door. “I’ll be down the hall if anyone wants me.”

“All right,” Marge said, going back to her report.

Griff headed down the corridor, thinking about the memo, and the more he thought about it, the more stupid it seemed. After all, what was this, an international spy ring? He could understand the coding of materials and colors, yes, because it was certainly a hell of a lot simpler to write “43” than it was to write “blue faille.” But what was the purpose of memorizing a bunch of letters, gray and white indeed — and besides they’d spelled gray wrong, hadn’t they? Shouldn’t it be an e? — to substitute for numbers? Who in the factory gave a damn about the pricing of a shoe, anyway, other than Cost, Production, and IBM? Hell, were the factory workers going to leak information to De Liso or I. Miller? Were they going to skulk up to Andrew Geller’s and whisper, “Andy boy, I got a hot tip for you, boy. You know this Julien Kahn glitter cloth job with the seal strip over the vamp? Fourteen ninety-five, Andy. Mark it down.” Now, that was plain nonsense. No, he’d have to talk to Joe about this. He’d have to set it straight now before the memo had a chance to foul things up.

He pushed open the door to Manelli’s office and walked directly to the secretary’s desk. He was surprised to see a new girl behind the desk, expecting to find Mr. Kurz’s beloved and trusted secretary, Mamie Lord. He realized then that Mamie’s head had probably joined G.K.’s in the sacrificial basket and that Joe Manelli had undoubtedly brought in one of his own favorites from Accounting. The girl wore her dark hair long, framing an oval face. He stood before her desk, and he could smell the subtly insinuating scent of her perfume. The girl was busy typing, and she did not look up.

“My name is Griffin,” he said pleasantly. “I’d like to see Mr. Manelli, please.”

The girl looked up from her machine.

He was startled to see that she was really exceptionally pretty. Her eyes were very wide and very brown, and she turned them up toward his face slowly, until they held his own eyes. And the moment they did, he read a dark knowledge in those eyes and on that face, a resigned sadness he had never seen on the face of a young woman before. No, he was suddenly shaken to realize, he had seen it once before. He had seen it on the face and in the eyes of a prostitute in France. Embarrassed, he dropped his gaze to the small brown beauty spot huddled in the hollow of her throat like a fugitive misplaced period. He concentrated his attention there.

“What did you say?” she asked. Her voice was unusually deep. He raised his eyes, and was surprised to discover that the disturbing impression was gone. He studied her then, frowning at his snap judgment, wondering how he could have seen anything here other than a sweet, young, pretty girl.

“I’m Ray Griffin,” he said. “I’d like to see Joe.”

“What department are you from, Mr. Griffin?” The girl’s voice had turned brusquely businesslike. If she were at all aware of him as a man, she showed no sign of it now.

Griff smiled, almost relieved. “Cost. Joe knows me, Miss. I want to talk to him about…”

“Mr. Manelli is in conference,” the girl said.

“Oh.” He remembered McQuade. “How long will he be?”

The girl looked up at the wall clock. “He asked me to buzz him at eleven-thirty. He has a luncheon appointment with someone from the Chrysler Building.”

“Well,” Griff said, glancing up at the clock too, “maybe I can catch him on his way out. I’ll wait, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” the girl said.

Griff walked to the easy chair opposite her desk, sitting down and folding his hands. The girl went back to her typing. The white-faced clock on the wall read eleven twenty-two. He listened to the busy clatter of her keys, studying her hands as they worked, glancing up at her face. The girl had a good profile, too, a damned good profile.

“How do you spell gray?” he asked.

The girl looked up. “What? I’m sorry, I…”

“Gray. How do you spell it?”

“Oh, the memo,” she said. She started to smile, but then she thought better of it. “Mr. Manelli spelled it out for me. He wanted it g-r-a-y.”

“But that’s not the way you spell it, is it?”

“No, I think e is the preferred spelling.”

“But Joe wanted an a, huh? Well, you know what the Bible says.” He smiled. “An a for an e.”

The girl stared at him blankly for a moment. She got it then, and said, “Oh.”

“No, e,” Griff said, still smiling. The smile expanded on his face. “Oh, I,” he said, “I’m probably bothering you.”

This time, the girl returned the smile. “I’m really quite busy,” she said apologetically.

“I’ll be quiet,” Griff said. “I promise.”

“He won’t be much longer.”

Griff nodded and then looked among the magazines on the table for something to read. He passed by the several retail shoe journals, and then opened a copy of Vogue, looking for the Julien Kahn advertising spreads.

“Here’s a pretty shoe,” he said.

The girl’s typewriter stopped. She looked up. “What?”

“This shoe.” He turned the magazine so that she could see it. “We call it ‘Flare.’ It’s red Swisscraft straw, a really pretty job. Look at the lines of it, will you?”

“It’s nice,” the girl said.

“A shoe like that makes your mouth water, doesn’t it?” Griff said: “Did you ever see anything so pretty? ‘Flare.’”

“It’s very nice,” the girl agreed, and went back to her typing.

Griff turned the magazine right side up, skimming through it, looking over the lines the competition was offering. He glanced up at the clock once more and said, “You’d better buzz Joe. It’s eleven-thirty.”

“Oh,” the girl said, seemingly flustered. “Thank you.”

She swiveled her chair around and depressed a lever on the intercom.

Joe Manelli’s voice came from the inner office. “Yes?”

“It’s eleven-thirty, Mr. Manelli.”

“Thank you, Miss Knowles.”

“And… Mr. Manelli?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Griffin is waiting to see you.”

“Griff? I’ll be out in a few minutes. Ask him to wait, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” She flicked up the lever and turned to Griff. “He said—”

“I heard.” He sat back to wait, glancing occasionally at the clock, occasionally at Miss Knowles. She seemed to be a good typist, and she sure as hell had a damned fine profile. What the hell had been the matter with him before?

At eleven-thirty-five, the door to Joe’s private office opened, and McQuade stepped through it. Manelli followed after him, and McQuade took his hand and said, “Thanks a million, Joe, I certainly appreciate all the time you’ve given me. And we’ll work that out, okay?”

“Fine, Mac,” Manelli said. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

McQuade nodded and smiled and then turned. He spotted Griff and walked to him quickly.

“Morning, Griff,” he said, extending his hand. “Have a good weekend?”

“So-so,” Griff said, taking his hand. “We’ve got those summaries for you, whenever you want them, Mr. McQuade.”

McQuade smiled. “Let’s make it, ‘Mac,’ shall we?”

“All right,” Griff said.

“I’ll look at those summaries later. Incidentally, I imagine the other departments will begin delivering sometime today. If I don’t get a chance to stop by the office… well, I wonder… would you sort of stack them up on my desk, and I’ll look at them when I get a chance?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I don’t want to hold you up. If you’ve got business with Joe, I know he has a luncheon engagement, so…” He spread his hands wide and smiled. “I’ll go snoop around someplace else.” He winked at Griff, glanced disinterestedly at Miss Knowles, and then left the office.

“Well,” Manelli said, “to what do I owe this honor?”

Manelli was a tall thin man with a shock of black hair and tired brown eyes. The eyes were distorted behind a pair of tortoise-rim glasses which were very close to being bifocals. Manelli had been an accountant all his life. He had been head accountant of the firm prior to his recent promotion, and his weak eyes could be blamed on the columns and columns of figures he had studied and restudied during his career. Yes, the weak eyes were a direct reflection of the erstwhile profession of Joseph Manelli, Accountant. His weak mouth was another thing again. His weak mouth was a direct reflection of the personality hiding beneath the pale white skin of Joseph Manelli, Man.

“I just received a memo,” Griff said.

“Oh? Which memo was that, Griff?”

“This code business. This ‘gray and white.’”

“Oh, yes, yes. Got that one already, did you?” He glanced up at the clock. “We’ll have to make this short, Griff. I’ve an appointment at twelve, and I don’t want to—”

“It won’t take a minute, Joe,” Griff said. He paused and considered what he was about to say, remembering that the accountant he had known for such a long time was at present the comptroller of Julien Kahn, Inc. “With all due respect, I don’t think this memo is a practical one.”

“You don’t, eh? Why not, Griff?”

“Well, there’s no real reason for trying to conceal our prices, Joe. This new scheme will only result in a loss of time. Actually, it’ll throw three smoothly functioning departments into a state of mass confusion.”

“Three departments?” Manelli asked.

“Well, yes. The IBM Room makes out the invoices, and they’d—”

“IBM, oh yes, yes.” Manelli blinked. “Well, Griff…”

“Look, Joe, you know we have to work fast in Cost. This code business will only mean unnecessary work, and it’ll mean a slow-down in production for the next week or so, until everyone concerned gets familiar enough with it to make it a working thing. And, even then, Joe, if you’ll excuse my saying so, it’ll be senseless.”

“Well,” Manelli said, “Titanic has been using it with success, Griff, and I thought I’d give it a whirl.”

“Yes, but Kahn isn’t Titanic. You can’t compare a fashion shoe to a casual.”

“Ah,” Manelli said, “but Kahn is Titanic, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Griff said, shaking his head impatiently, “but that’s not what I meant. I meant where it concerns making a shoe. Titanic—”

“Griff,” Manelli interrupted, “I’m here to learn. I won’t dispute the fact that you know a hell of a lot more about our operation than I’ll ever know, and don’t think I won’t be counting on your experience heavily in the weeks and months to come. But really, and admit this, Griff, I know you’re big enough to admit it, don’t you feel this request is really a very simple one? I mean, and tell me the truth, Griff couldn’t your department and Production and IBM get used to this new system in a matter of days? Now, really, is ‘gray and white’ so difficult to learn? G is one, and r is two, and a is three, and so on, and so on. Now, is that really so difficult to learn, is it really? Come, now, Griff, are you going to oppose one of my first official acts as comptroller?”

“That’s not the point,” Griff said, beginning to lose his patience. “Joe, look, there’s… there’s just no sense to it, even after we’ve memorized the stu… the thing. Who are we protecting the prices from? Who the hell would want—”

“People,” Manelli said, smiling.

“People? What people? Who gives a damn what we price our shoes at? Are you thinking of the competition? Joe, you know as well as I do that’s not a valid argument. All De Liso has to do is shop at any retail outlet. He takes our retail price, deducts forty-four per cent and he’s got our invoice price. So what are we trying to hide?”

“Ah, but does De Liso know that?” Manelli asked.

“Does De Liso know what?”

“That there’s a forty-four per cent markup on our shoes?”

“Well, he damn well ought to,” Griff said. “He’s been in business for a long time now.”

Manelli shrugged. “If he does know it,” he said, avoiding Griff’s penetrating stare, “there’s not much we can do about it, is there? But if he doesn’t… ah, that’s a horse of a diferent color. If he doesn’t know, we’re not going to hand him the information on a silver platter, not by a long shot. He’s going to have to work for it. Now isn’t that sensible, Griff? Tell me the truth, is that not sensible?”

Griff was astonished. “No,” he said, “it’s not sensible. To tell you the honest truth, Joe, it’s plain stupid!”

Manelli raised his eyebrows in shocked aloofness.

“Don’t you see, Joe? There just isn’t any secret to guard. The price of a shoe isn’t something—”

“We had to use a instead of e, if you were wondering about the spelling,” Manelli said, “so that no two letters would be repeated. A really remarkable set of words, you know.”

“Joe,” Griff said, sighing, “please don’t give me the brush-off. I’m asking you to toss this idea out. It’s only going to—”

“Say, I’d better hurry if I want to—”

“…foul up production, and if we want to keep hitting twenty-six hundred pairs a day, we can’t afford to fool around with a lot of—”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Griff. I want to raise our pairage. I want to show Chrysler something like twenty-eight hundred, maybe three thousand a day by the end of this month. Think we can do it?”

“Why ask me? Boris gives the cutting orders,” Griff said angrily.

“Ah, yes, but it’s common knowledge you ran interference for G.K. with Chrysler whenever he got into a tight one. I want you to help me, too. Can we hit twenty-eight?”

“It depends on Chrysler,” Griff said. “I suppose so.”

“What’s bothering you? Have you priced a few pairs today under the old setup?”

“I’ve priced three thousand pairs, but that has nothing to do with this damned stupid scheme, Joe! Now, Joe, for Christ’s sake, listen to reason.”

“Forget those pairs,” Manelli said genially. “If they’re what’s bothering you, forget them. Use the new system from now on, okay?”

“Joe—”

“I’ve got to rush, Griff. Stop in some time tomorrow, all right? We’ll talk over the pairage then, and you can tell me how we inveigled Chrysler in the past, eh?” He turned to his secretary. “Cara, I’ll be out for… oh, two hours at the most.”

“Yes, sir,” Cara Knowles said.

“Come on, Griff, snap out of it,” Manelli said, smiling with his weak immature mouth. “Cheer up.” He patted Griff on the shoulder and walked out of the office.

“That stupid son of a—” Griff started. He remembered the girl abruptly. “Excuse me,” he said.

“It’ll work out,” Cara answered.

“Yeah,” Griff said dully.

“No, really, Mr. Griffin. You’d be surprised how quickly people get accustomed to new ideas.”

Griff nodded sourly. “That’s what Ilse Koch said when she began making lampshades.”

The entire IBM Room was fired on Friday of that week. The firing came as something of a shock, because Julien Kahn usually let people go on Wednesdays, when the payroll was tallied. Titanic apparently preferred the last day of the week, a preference which would lead to a good deal of anxiety on that day for many weeks to come.

Everyone, of course, knew that the IBM Room was not worth a damn the way it was being run. Frank Fazio was a hell of a nice guy, but he didn’t know the IBM from the BMT. Ever since the machines had been installed last August, the department had been in a constant state of harried bewilderment. The machines, which would have simplified the department’s job if properly utilized, had become separate, quietly calculating monsters, and each employee in the department approached them with a mental illusion of being devoured, punched, and filed under D for Digested. Fazio had, of course, taken the required IBM course of study, but Fazio was an old dog, and these new tricks were a little too much for him to absorb. He had tried passing on his partially learned tricks to the people who worked under him, and the result was a confused mass of uninformed people playing around with a very well-informed mass of machines machines which assumed the characteristics of master brains by comparison. But even so, even knowing the department was something of a beheaded chicken, everyone in the factory had sort of grown accustomed to its aimless meanderings. It was something like having a drunken husband lying on the living-room couch all day long. You certainly didn’t call the ASPCA to come take him away, did you? No one in the factory would have dreamed of taking the IBM Room away.

Except Joseph Manelli, it seemed.

Joseph Manelli, it seemed, had no particular fondness for drunken spouses cluttering up the living room of his factory. Joseph Manelli called International Business Machines and told them to have their infernal monsters out of the building by Friday of next week, at which time most of the members of the department would officially leave the employ of Julien Kahn. There were seven people in the IBM Room: five girls, Fazio (who was supervisor), and an assistant supervisor. Manelli’s one-week notice applied only to the five girls. Fazio and his assistant were expected to stay on for an additional sixty days while they cleaned up shop, after which time the Accounting Department would take over its duties. Or so the memo from Manelli decreed.

Griff was not at all pleased with the memo, a carbon copy of which had reached his desk, since the IBM operation tied in with his own. He liked Frank Fazio, and he had also liked Joseph Manelli to some extent. But Manelli exhibited all the signs of becoming a worse son of a bitch than Kurz had ever been, and this was very disturbing to Griff.

He voiced his opinions in the seeming privacy of the Cost Department, and Marge listened to him quietly and attentively. When his tirade was completed, he was surprised to find McQuade standing in the open doorway, and he felt this strange panic again, and he cursed McQuade mentally, certain the man’s forefathers had all been Indian scouts.

McQuade smiled. “You shouldn’t condemn Joe, Griff,” he said. “He’s stepped into a difficult job. And, after all, you know as well as I do that the IBM Room was operating at a loss. Or at least that’s what Joe told me.”

“Well,” Griff said warily, “I suppose so.”

McQuade shrugged. “I’ve got a bad habit, I guess, of always trying to see the other man’s viewpoint. Griff, we’re all being paid to do a job, aren’t we? If we’re not doing our job, we’re accepting money under false pretenses. I think Joe did the right thing in letting the entire department go. And I think the big boys at Titanic will be pleased with what he’s done.”

Griff imagined they would, but he did not voice any comment. Throughout the past week, he had come to accept McQuade as a permanent fixture in the department. The tight formality of their earlier thrusts at friendship had dissolved into a smoothly functioning working relationship. Griff took to calling him “Mac” without feeling silly about it, and McQuade went about his getting-acquainted job effortlessly and quietly, asking nothing more than desk space from the department. He visited other departments, and he talked to people, and he spent a lot of time with Manelli and a lot of time with Hengman and a lot of time in the factory, and as much time in Chrysler Building across the river. He really seemed determined to learn the Kahn operation. He was always courteous and always pleasant, and there was no real reason to distrust him.

But, at the same time, Griff very rarely voiced any opinions about Titanic while McQuade was present. He was sensible enough to realize that McQuade was indeed a representative of the now-mother company, and he was in no hurry to vilify Mom’s name while McQuade was around. Lurking in the corner of his mind was Hengman’s declaration that McQuade was a “hetchet men.” Griff wasn’t sure that McQuade was, but he was not anxious to find out. He considered McQuade’s unfortunate entrance during his tirade a serious mishap, and he warned himself to be more careful in the future.

The firing of the IBM Room precipitated a flow of memos from every department in the factory and Sales Offices, as if the firing were a slap in the face which had suddenly brought the entire company to its collective feet. The week after the firing would long be remembered as Memo Week.

Manelli started the ball rolling with his upper-case memos, a sign of affectation no doubt, but certainly boldly impressive in their own quietly screaming way. The memos came from his office like ominously falling stones, and they probably started the avalanche which followed. The first memo was a short one. It said:

It was true, of course, that floor foremen had pets on their floors, or friends, or relatives, or even mistresses. It was also true that these assorted pets, friends, relatives, and mistresses did a lot of piecework, and that sometimes the piecework on a particular shoe ran out, and there was nothing left to do but go home. Being a pet, friend, etc. of the foreman came in handy at such times. The foreman found work for these idle pieceworkers, putting them on straight time for the remainder of the day. The work was usually of a non-laborious nature, and was generally a waste of time and — more important — company money. So Manelli’s first memo was not a silly one. It was, in fact, a pretty shrewd one, and Griff wondered how in hell he had ever found out about the delinquency or how he’d ever mustered up the courage to call a halt to it.

His second memo was an attempt at spilling a little oil on the troubled waters. It read:

Well, this was definitely soothing to the department heads, especially after being called down about favors to special friends. This meant that the denial of favors was to be accompanied by a little extra cash for the denial of those favors. For overtime was definitely a favor. If a man goofed all day long, he could stay at his machine to the wee hours of the morn, drawing time and a half, and goofing even more. It was an accepted means of pulling down a little extra dough that week, and the foremen casually overlooked it, even though everyone knew that four hours of overtime work amounted to about one hour of honest-to-God straight-time work. So the supervisors were happy, but the workers weren’t particularly overjoyed. Overtime, to many of them, meant the difference between a new TV set or last year’s paltry seventeen-inch model. The workers were not happy at all.

So Manelli issued a third decree, designed to lift the spirits of the factory personnel, and the third decree read as follows:

Not to be outdone by Joseph Manelli, the people in charge of various departments throughout the building began sending their own memos, carbon copies of which invariably reached Griff’s desk for one reason or another.

They didn’t wait for the elevator. They took the stairway down to the eighth floor, racing down the steps, passing the fire hose in the corridor, and then coming out into the Cutting Room. The floor was deathly silent. There were no screams and no sounds of machinery. The silence hung over the floor like a deep black mist, impenetrable and ominous.

The cutting benches were hidden behind a wall of people, men from the Leather Room and the Cutting Room, women who had left Prefitting to join the ring of spectators, runners who had stopped their work to watch the fight. Everyone on the floor seemed to have crowded into the Cutting Room.

“Where are they?” Griff asked.

“Through there,” Jored said, sweating. “Come on, break it up, let us through here, let us through!”

The workers parted silently. From somewhere on the other side of the ring, a voice shouted, “Slash the son of a bitch, Charlie!”

Griff looked up quickly, trying to locate the voice. He saw a ring of sweating faces, and he was suddenly aware that he himself was sweating. He shouldered his way through the men, smelling the sweat on them, and smelling this other thing, this blood lust that was reflected in the shining eyes and drawn mouths. The blood lust gleamed in the eyes of the women, too. They may have been screaming a few moments before when Jored had left the floor, but they weren’t screaming now, not with their mouths and their throats. They were screaming in a different way, a scream that started somewhere deep in them and worked its way through their blood, rushing like a fever, hot and raging, putting the shine on their eyes, bringing the saliva to their lips. The scream was a black evil thing that cried for blood. The scream was the “Olé” of a bullfight, dark in intent, ravenous for blood. The fight was a flesh-and-blood explosion of petty hatred, and as they watched the fighters, their own hatreds, petty and large, rushed to their brains and their eyes, and they longed for the purging cleanser that was blood.

He saw this in their eyes, and he was suddenly afraid, because he liked Charlie, and he knew what the goading of a crowd could do to a man with a knife in his hands.

“Cut ’em off for him, Charlie!” one of the men shouted, and then a woman standing near one of the benches bellowed, “Get him, Steve. Crack in his skull!”

He burst through the fringe of the ring, and he felt like a man who had swum underwater in an ocean of blood. He breathed deeply for an instant, and then his eyes focused against the sunlight glaring through the windows, and two images stood out starkly against the leering, hungry background of faces.

Charlie was wearing a T-shirt, soaked with sweat now, the shirt sticking to his muscular back and chest, the perspiration spreading in dark blots outward from his backbone, outward from his armpits, like devouring amoebae that nibbled at the whiteness of the shirt. His dark curling hair was matted to his brow. The sweat clung to his brow and rolled down the bridge of his nose, clung there in droplets until he shook them off, and then cascaded past the hard firmness of his set mouth, dotting the floor. He was tense and tight, the biceps of his arm bulging with the coiled-spring tautness of his body. He held the cutting knife in his right hand, his fingers firm on the handle, the moon-crescent blade glittering in the sunlight. He kept his left hand out in front of him, the fingers wide-spread, like a wrestler circling for a hold.

Three feet from him, Steve Maiches stood, a heavy metal-based mallet tight in his hand. He wore a blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, crisp red hairs curling on his heavy arms. His eyes were green and slitted, his red crew cut bursting from the top of his skull like a rigid pictorial display of his anger. He crouched over, waiting for an opening, waiting to swing the mallet, waiting like a medieval knight with a mace in his hands. His lips were skinned back over his teeth, and his teeth were clenched tightly together, and Steve Maiches was not kidding, Steve Maiches was not kidding at all.

“Hit the bastard, Steve!” someone shouted.

“Come on, Steve, swing that thing!”

“Get him, Charlie.”

“Go, Charlie, go. In the gut, Charlie.”

Steve backed off down the aisle. Charlie followed him, probing the air with the cutting knife, grasping the air with the wide-spread fingers of his left hand. Steve hissed a little, the hiss escaping his clenched teeth like an involuntary rumble of his seething hatred.

“Come on, come on, let’s go! Go, go, go!”

“Go, go,” the workers began to chant. “Go, go, go, go!”

Steve swung the mallet at nothing, and Charlie backed away, skipping up the aisle again. Steve kept swinging the mallet, the air whispering behind it.

“That’s the boy, Steve! Now, go, boy, go, go, go.”

Charlie was close to Griff now. He could smell the sweat on him, and the greater smell of fear.

“Charlie,” he said.

Charlie did not answer. He kept his eyes on the swinging mallet in Steve Maiches’ hand.

“You going to fight, you yellow bastard?” Steve shouted. He advanced a step and Charlie yelled, “Keep away from me, Maiches!”

“Charlie,” Griff said, “listen to me.”

Charlie did not turn his head.

“It’s me, Charlie. Griff. Now listen to me, will you? Put down that knife and—”

“Keep out of this, Griff,” Charlie said tightly. “Keep out of it.” He wet his lips and stepped forward on the balls of his feet. Steve backed away from him, eying the crescent blade. Charlie stabbed at the air.

Steve suddenly stamped the floor with his foot. “Yo!” he shouted, bringing back the mallet. Charlie jumped back, startled, and the workers began laughing, and then the laughter changed from something honest to something slimy. The laughter became mocking laughter, an insult to Charlie’s courage, and he flushed with embarrassment, and then the embarrassment fled before resolve, and he set his jaw tighter and moved forward a few inches, gripping the knife more tightly.

“Charlie, don’t let them talk you into this,” Griff said. “You’re being stupid, Charlie. Put down the knife and—”

“Shut up,” Charlie snarled without turning his head. “Keep your goddam mouth shut!”

“Hey, brave boy, let’s see some action!” one of the men shouted.

“Come on, handsome!” a woman yelled, “cut him up good.”

“It’s no use,” Jored said. “Griff, they’re both crazy. What the hell are we gonna do?”

“Did you call Hengman?”

“Before I come up to get you. What’s Hengman gonna do? He gonna step in there and take their weapons away? What the hell is anyone gonna do?”

“Maybe it’ll peter out,” Griff said. “If neither of them makes the first move, maybe it’ll just fizzle.”

“Come on, Charlie boy,” Steve taunted. “Come on, yellow. Come an inch closer and I’ll crack your rotten skull open. Come on, Charlie.”

“Go get him, Charlie,” a woman yelled.

“Don’t let him talk to you like that, Charlie!”

Charlie rushed forward with the knife high, and Steve leaped up onto one of the benches and then dropped into the neighboring aisle. He laughed uproariously and, when Charlie leaped up onto the bench, he swung the mallet in a murderous arc, its base colliding with the bench and leaving a dent in the wooden surface, missing Charlie by inches. Charlie leaped to the floor and Steve ran up the aisle, and a shout went up from the workers. Two women began dancing on the fringe of the circle, in burlesque of the fighters. Charlie lunged with the cutting knife, and its crescent blade caught one of Steve’s rolled-up sleeves, snagged there for an instant, and then pulled away with a rasping tear. The smile left Steve Maiches’ face. He glanced briefly at the torn sleeve, and then his lips skinned back again, and the crowd went suddenly silent.

He ducked behind a bench piled high with brassbound patterns, and Charlie wiped the bench clean with a sweep of his left hand, sending the patterns clattering to the floor. Steve lashed out with the mallet, and Charlie pulled back his hand as the heavy piece smashed into wood once more. Griff shoved his way around the fringe of spectators.

“Charlie!” he shouted, “for Christ’s sake—”

“Leave me alone!” Charlie yelled, and then he took another sideward swipe with the knife, and Steve sucked in his stomach and yelled, “Leave the son of a bitch alone! Let him fight this out. Let him get his rotten head bashed in.”

“That’s the way, Steve!” someone bellowed.

“Go give it to him!”

“Break his arm, buddy, break it off!”

The fighters faced each other warily now, as if they had just become acquainted with the destructive power of their respective weapons. There was no more taunting from the crowd. The two men faced each other breathing raggedly, one holding a cutting knife, the other a mallet. Their weapons seemed to lower a little, as if, realizing what damage they could do to each other, they had also realized the stupidity of their fight. The hatred, too, seemed to have fled their eyes. They were tired now, and it showed in the heaving of their chests and the heaviness of their feet.

“Come on, fellas,” Griff said, “let’s break it up, huh?”

They did not tell him to shut up this time. They seemed to be listening this time, and they seemed to be weighing Griff’s advice. The crowd, too, had had enough. They had expected quick blood, but there had been none, and now they were weary of the proceedings. There was work to be done, and tickets to be clipped and they sure as hell weren’t making any money standing around watching these two boobs who still hadn’t come anywhere near to drawing blood. Griff sensed this changed atmosphere, and he knew the fight was nearing an end.

“Come on,” he said gently, “let’s put down those murderous clubs and daggers, huh?”

He saw a somewhat embarrassed smile mushroom onto Steve’s face, and then Charlie’s hand lowered a little, as if he would drop the cutting knife, and then Hengman’s voice burst onto the floor like a mortar explosion.

Griff saw Charlie’s knife hand come up again, tensed, ready. He turned abruptly as Hengman shoved his way through the throng of workers. Behind Hengman, he could see McQuade, his head towering above those around him, his wide shoulders cutting a swath through the crowd.

“All right, all right,” Hengman said, “what’s ull dis abott, hah? What’s gung on here?”

“The Hengman,” someone yelled, and then the whispers fled over the floor, “The Hengman, hengman, hmmmm…”

“Gat beck to your banches!” Hengman shouted. He was a short bald man with a black Hitler mustache. He waved his fists in the air like a windmill and kept shouting, “Gat beck to your banches!” No one moved. “Come on,” he shouted, “you dint hear me, maybe? Gat beck, already!” He shoved his way through the crowd, stopping alongside Griff. “What kind nonsanse you allowing, Griffie? What the hell…”

He didn’t wait for Griff’s answer. He looked past Griff to where Steve and Charlie had become suddenly alert again.

“You two! What you stending around like a bunch monkeys for, hah? Gat the hell off the floor and beck to work!”

A new element had intruded itself into the picture. This had been a friendly sort of heart-slashing, head-bashing duel between brothers of toil up to now. This had been a strictly Labor fight, but now Management had stepped into the picture, and Management had no right in it.

“Agh, shut up, Hengman,” someone shouted, and Hengman whirled quickly, trying to locate the voice, but another voice joined it too rapidly, from the other side of the ring.

“Leave them alone, Hengman.”

And then another. “Back to your hole, Hengman!”

And another, and another. “Shut up, Hengman.” “Drop dead, Hengman,” and suddenly the blood lust was back, and the voices were no longer cheering two fighters, they were cheering two people who were opposing Management.

“Come on, Charlie, stick the son of a bitch!”

“Go at him, Steve! Go get him, boy.”

And the “Go, go, go, go,” chant rose again, higher in its fury this time, higher in its disrespect for the Management Hengman represented.

“How’d this happen?” McQuade asked Griff.

Griff didn’t answer. He turned to Hengman instead. “Boris, do me a favor, will you?” he said. “Get the hell off the floor. I can handle this. Please, will you?”

Hengman stared at him for a moment. He nodded his head then, and began shoving his way toward the stairwell.

“What do you propose doing, Griff?” McQuade asked.

Griff watched the fighters. They were unaware of Hengman’s departure. They heard only the cries for blood again, and the cries attacked their own blood, and they circled menacingly now, caution thrown aside, eager to do battle.

“Griff, what do you—” McQuade started.

Griff ignored him. “Charlie,” he called, “Steve! Look, Hengman is gone. Can’t you see there’s no sense to—”

He was surprised to hear the voice beside him. He was surprised because that voice had been soft and gentle whenever he’d heard it before. It was not soft and gentle now. It was strong and powerful and it blasted out above the hum of the workers.

“Get back to your benches, men, or you’ll be out in the street tomorrow!” The voice was McQuade’s.

Griff turned anxiously. “Mac,” he said, “that’s not the right app—”

McQuade shoved him aside. He walked out to the center of the floor, keeping a good distance between himself and the armed men, but going close nonetheless. He was taller than both of them, and his blond hair caught the rays of the sun, giving him a fiery-crowned appearance.

“Put down those tools!” he roared. “Get back to your work!”

Charlie glanced over his shoulder at the godlike figure behind him. The floor had gone dead all at once. The workers knew this was the man from Titanic, and they respected his power, and they were also in awe of his physical appearance, a giant of a man who was standing on the floor now, and who they were sure would disarm both men if provoked far enough.

“Put ’em down!” he bellowed.

“Go ahead, chicken,” Steve said. “Do what the man says!”

Charlie turned his head quickly and then lashed out with the cutting knife, reaching for Steve’s chest.

“I’m warning you!” McQuade shouted ominously, his voice echoing over the quiet floor.

“Go to hell, prettyboy!” Steve yelled.

McQuade turned abruptly, leaving the floor and shoving his way through the crowd. He did not talk to Griff, nor did he even look at him. He barged his way past, his shoulders working like bulldozers, pushing workers aside, rushing toward the door at the end of the floor.

“Charlie,” Griff said gently. “Look, boy, be sensible. You’re gonna lose your job because of this, unless you—”

“We lost them already!” Steve shouted.

“No, look, I’ll talk to Hengman. Put down those tools and I’ll square things with him, okay? Look, what’s the sense of knocking yourselves out? You’ve got good jobs, haven’t you? Kahn’s a good outfit to work for, isn’t it? Now come on, what the hell’s the sense in throwing all that down the drain? You’re behaving like a bunch of kids. You’re behaving just like—”

He heard the commotion behind him, but he didn’t stop talking.

“—a bunch of kids. Come on now, put down the artillery, huh? Charlie, have I ever steered you wrong? I said I’ll square it with Hengman, and I will. He knows you’re both good men, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to lose you. Now, come on, what do you say? Don’t force him to be a bastard. Come on, fellas, let’s get back to work, huh?”

He saw the cutting knife go lax, and then he saw Steve lower the mallet, and he thanked God it was all over, and then he heard McQuade’s voice behind him again, and this time the voice yelled, “All right, turn it on.”

Turn what on? he thought, and he swung around just as McQuade pushed through the circle. He saw the fire hose in McQuade’s hands then, the nozzle long and brassy, the hose itself winding back through the crowd like a deflated white snake. And suddenly the snake was no longer deflated. It puffed out like a cobra, and power surged along its length, and rushed out of the nozzle in a foaming white plume of water. McQuade held the nozzle tightly, pushing himself into the ring of spectators, shoving the rushing surge of water ahead of him, playing the stream on Charlie and Steve. The power of the stream knocked Charlie from his feet. The cutting knife left his hands, clattering to the floor, spinning dizzily as the water lashed at it. Steve brought his arm up to cover his face, dropping the mallet as McQuade kept the stream on his body. The water knocked him down too, then, and he fell to the floor sputtering as McQuade drowned them both in water and more water, moving closer, the stream seeming to grow in power, lashing at the two men, flailing them like a live white whip. He kept the stream on them until both men were crying, the tears flowing freely and mingling with the wetness already on their faces.

“All right,” he shouted, “turn it off.”

Miraculously, the stream of water ended. It clung to the air for a moment, and then the source was cut off at the nozzle, and the water in the air splashed to the floor in a whitish spray, and then there was only a trickle from the nozzle and McQuade roared, “Get up!”

“Mac,” Griff said, “there was no need for—”

“Get up and get the hell out of here! You can pick up your time on Friday, and then stay the hell away from this factory, is that clear?”

Charlie and Steve got to their feet, dazed and shaken, still weeping. They moved through the crowd, and then suddenly the crowd began to disperse. There was no sound now, except for the shuffling of feet across the factory floor.

“He’s ruined my shantung,” Jored whispered to Griff. “Christ, he’s ruined thousands of dollars’ worth of fabric.”

They could hear the machines starting up again. No one was speaking. There was only the whir of the sewing machines now, as the girls in Prefitting got back to work. The cutters stood around aimlessly, their feet soggy in the water underfoot, staring disconsolately at the ruined, soaked fabrics on their benches.

McQuade dropped the hose. It clattered to the floor at his feet. “Who’s the foreman here?” he asked, turning.

“I am,” Jored said.

“Get your men to work. Get whatever material you need from the Leather Room. Call downstairs, if you have to. And get some men from Maintenance to mop up this mess.”

“Yes, sir,” Jored said.

Griff was suddenly trembling. “You… you shouldn’t have done that, Mac,” he said quietly.

“Titanic doesn’t go for any of this nonsense, Griff,” McQuade said, smiling now. “If you allow two of them to step out of line, the whole damned factory will act up. We’re interested in production, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but there’s such a thing as—”

“So we lost some fabric, what the hell? Matter of fact, we may be able to dry it out enough to use. I’ll have to ask Collins in the main Leather Room about that possibility. In the meantime, everyone on this floor knows we’re not going to stand for any nonsense when shoes are supposed to be made. And you’ll be surprised how fast that’ll spread through the factory.”

Griff could not stop trembling. “I… I had the fight under control,” he said. “There was no need for the hose.”

“Are you sore at me?” McQuade asked, grinning.

“There was no need for the hose,” Griff repeated dully.

“Come on,” McQuade said, “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

McQuade was smiling, and Griff told himself he could not kick someone in the teeth while he was smiling.

“All right,” he said, and abruptly his trembling stopped.

He went downstairs with McQuade, but he was troubled.

He thought about the incident with the fire hose for the remainder of that week, and in all his thoughts he was surprised to find himself seeking an excuse for McQuade’s behavior.

He did not want to believe that the man who’d turned the fire hose on Charlie and Steve was the same man who’d bought him the cup of coffee afterward, the man he had grown accustomed to as “Mac.”

He could not, in all truth, attribute any particular viciousness to McQuade’s hosing. There had been no sadism involved, he was certain of that. He had seen McQuade’s face when he was playing the hose on the two men, and there had been no glee there, in fact there had not even been any anger on it. The face had been expressionless, the hands holding the hose firm. In that moment, McQuade had looked like a man trying to put out a fire, nothing more and nothing less. But even so, even so…

He began to question himself about brutality. From what McQuade had said, he was trying to teach an object lesson. By watering down Steve and Charlie, he was showing the rest of the workers that Titanic would brook no horse manure. He must have realized, then, that the fight could have been broken up without using the hose. But he preferred to use the hose instead, giving his lesson dramatic impact, and was this not brutality, and, if not, what was brutality? McQuade had used two other men for his own devious purposes. Those two men had been humiliated and damn near drowned, and those two men had lost their jobs in the bargain, and all so that McQuade could show the workers who was boss.

Is that wrong? Griff asked himself. He did not know.

He tried to discount the hosing from his evaluation. In his mind, the use of a hose was connected with penal institutions, and so he discounted the hosing in judging the case. Suppose McQuade had used his bare fists instead? Suppose he had stepped onto the floor and disarmed them and beat them senseless with his hands, or suppose he had not even beat them senseless, just socked one or the other or both, but stopped the fight, and got the men back to work, would he have been wrong then?

Well, no, he supposed, not if it were for the good of the factory. A mixup on the eighth floor could mean a slowdown on every floor. The fight had to be stopped, and McQuade stopped it, and how he stopped it was not really terribly important.

Except that I was damn close to stopping it myself, Griff thought, without the use of either a hose or fists. Now, wait a minute, wait a minute, he told himself, how can you be sure it was going to stop? Because they were listening to you? Steve could have stepped in any minute and cracked Charlie’s head wide open, and that would have fixed things up solid, wouldn’t it?

McQuade had acted decisively. He had sized up the situation, delivered a warning, and then taken action when his warning had gone unheeded. He had behaved somewhat like a — a despot… yes, but hadn’t that been called for in the situation? There was danger present. Hadn’t he prevented any blood-letting?

So, disregarding the automatic association of brutality with a hosing, didn’t one have to admit that McQuade was acting for the good of the company and even, when you got right down to it, the good of the two men who were menacing each other with dangerous weapons?

Had anyone really been hurt? No.

Had anyone really suffered for it? No. (Except Charlie and Steve, and Hengman would have canned them, anyway.)

And hadn’t it really set things straight in the factory? Didn’t everyone know the score now? Didn’t they know they were there to make shoes, and, whereas there may have been goofing and cheating and stealing and whatever-the-hell under the Kahn regime, didn’t they now know them days was gone forever, and that Titanic was a new firm with fresh blood and keen ideas, strong ideas, maybe, but ideas under which a company could flourish and thrive and beat out the rest of the field, and if that happened wouldn’t it benefit those people who worked in the factory, those people who spent nine hours of every day there, more waking hours than they spent at home, people who — in reality — damn near lived at the factory, wouldn’t, it help them?

It was a question of the general good, he figured. Maybe things would be tough for a while, but it would all turn out for the best. The people of the factory would be served. Once you got that prejudical picture of the hosing out of your mind, things fell into place, and you had to admit no real injustice had been done. You had to admit that if you were being fair with yourself. And fair with McQuade.

He was no monster. He was a man doing a job.

Nonetheless, and in spite of Griff’s reasoning, a pall seemed to settle itself over the factory for the remainder of that week. He could not have described the pall accurately if he’d wanted to. It was more an attitude than anything else. The workers went about their jobs as usual, but the atmosphere seemed to have tightened a little. There was not as much laughter as there used to be, not as much jibing or friendly chatter. The workers worked, and whenever someone in a business suit appeared on the floor, they worked harder, and into their work a sort of tremulous fear crept, a fear that was never admitted except in the quick shifting of an eye or the sudden turn of a head over a shoulder. The shop stewards, despite their outrage over the hosing, were forced to admit that the two men involved had not behaved in an exactly exemplary way, and they couldn’t very well oppose the firing of those men once the facts were laid before them. Their hands were tired, and this bound helplessness spread to the rest of the factory until Charlie and Steve took on the proportions of martyrs in a forgotten cause.

The workers remembered the fight, and then they began wondering why the fight had started, and they recalled there had been some business about piecework-and overtime, and in recalling that they also were forced to recall Manelli’s overtime edict, and so they worked harder during the day, knowing that overtime was frowned upon now. But their work was a sort of “I’ll-show-you-you-bastard” kind of thing. If they were to be denied overtime, they would have to earn that extra cash during the day. They worked with a vengeance, and behind their increased labor was this fear that sneaked into their eyes and their gestures. They did not want to lose their jobs. The factory was their home, and they did not want to be put out into the street.

Griff could not ignore the changed tempo or the changed attitude of the factory. He had been with the firm for eleven years, and in those years, the business had become a part of his makeup. He loved the business, and he loved shoes, and he loved everything about making shoes. The factory, as corrupt and as badly functioning as it had been under the Kahns, was nonetheless a warm sort of retreat for him. There had never been a morning when he did not rise looking forward to the job ahead of him. He liked going to work. He knew there were many men who despised their jobs, but this did not at all lessen his own pleasure. There was excitement in the factory, and warmth, and a feeling of well-being. He was a lucky man, and he knew it.

But now, with the change that had moved in after the hosing, he felt a strange uneasiness, and the uneasiness gave way to a troubled mystification. He did not like the new climate of Julien Kahn. And because that climate was such an integral part of his life, he carried it with him all day long, he carried it home with him at night, and he carried it with him while he was asleep, and all the while it troubled him deeply because the making of shoes was his first love, and now he hardly recognized his love.

He blamed the factory for the failure of his first date with Cara Knowles. Actually, his fixing of blame may or may not have been valid. He did feel extremely morose that Saturday night, but there were a good many other factors which combined to make the date a failure, and his moroseness was only one of them.

March 13 had started out to be another normal March day, full of wind and ill temper. He had awakened from a deep sleep at about ten o’clock, smoked a cigarette, and then started preparing some bacon and eggs for breakfast. He began washing while the bacon fried, saving the shaving until that evening, and figuring he’d certainly have time enough to finish before the bacon was done. He miscalculated and, when he went back into the kitchen of his efficiency apartment, he was greeted with the sight of six curling black strips of charcoal. The burnt bacon killed all taste for eggs. He poured himself a cup of coffee and drank only that, having another cigarette at the table.

He had awakened again with the memory of the factory sharp in his mind. For the hundredth time, he went over the hosing, and then tried to understand the attitude of the workers; and for the hundredth time he was left with a vague sense of uneasiness and despair. He tried to tell himself that he was, after all, not responsible for the attitude of anyone in the factory. He had a fairly important job, and he did that job better — probably — than anyone else in the factory could have done it, but he did not kid himself into thinking he was indispensable. He was simply a cog in a vast machine — perhaps a unique cog in that he recognized his own cogginess and at the same time was endowed with a sense of responsibility toward the rest of the machine — but nonetheless a cog. So why did he feel upset about the way things were going? He could not answer the question.

It started raining at noon. It was a cold dreary rain accompanied by a sharp wind that flung enraged needles of icy water against the windowpanes. He listened to the rain, and the rain increased his gloominess, seemed to entrap him within the four walls of his apartment and the gray walls of his thoughts. He tried to read but soon put the book aside. He paced the apartment for a while, asking himself, What the hell is wrong with me, why doesn’t it stop raining? and then he threw himself onto his bed, seeking the solace of sleep, annoyed when sleep would not come. He got up finally and went out for a newspaper, but all the papers at his local stand were soaked through. He bought a copy of The Saturday Evening Post instead, but when he got back to his apartment he no longer felt like reading it. He looked at the Norman Rockwell cover, and then he thumbed through the magazine looking at all the illustrations and the cartoons, and then put it aside, convinced that eight o’clock was at least four million years away.

He began looking forward to his date with Cara. In his mind, he wove a sort of dream fantasy around the date. Seeing her would set the rest of the day right, he told himself. They would have one hell of a good time, and all the rain and all the doubt would be washed away. He began to wage a silent battle with his wrist watch, playing tricks with time. The next time I look, ten minutes will have passed. I’ll count to three hundred slowly, and five minutes will have passed. It will now be four o’clock. It will now be five twenty-seven.

At a quarter to six, he went down for supper. He was not very hungry, but he forced himself to eat, knowing he would be drinking later on, and not wanting to fall flat on his face. The pork chops were greasy, and the french fries were soggy and tasteless. Even the coffee tasted like muddy rainwater. He went back to his apartment, convinced now that nothing would go right until he was with Cara.

He dressed carefully, putting on a white shirt and a blue suit. He tied a Windsor knot and then buttoned down his collar. He examined himself in the mirror and was somewhat pleased with the result, even though he’d nicked his chin while shaving. He remembered then that he’d forgotten to polish his black shoes, and he set to the task disgustedly, taking off his jacket and getting a smear of polish on the sleeve of his shirt. He debated changing the shirt, convinced himself it would not show under the jacket, and then went to wash the black goo from his hands. He had always enjoyed polishing shoes. Tonight, he had not.

He left the apartment at seven-fifteen and drove through a blinding rain uptown to the Bronx. All I need is a flat, he thought, and then he looked skyward quickly and said aloud, “I didn’t mean that, Boss.” He could not find a parking space on the Grand Concourse. He almost collided with a bus while he was making a U-turn, but he finally found a narrow space near the courthouse.

He did not believe in umbrellas or hats. He turned up the collar of his raincoat, checked the address she had given him, and then stepped out into the rain. He was beginning to feel a little better. He’d be seeing Cara soon, and everything would be all right. He quickened his step and then abruptly glanced at his wrist watch. It was only seven forty-five, and he’d told her eight o’clock. He looked around hastily, spotting a bar and heading for it. He shook off his coat when he was inside and then found a stool at the bar and ordered a whisky sour. A blonde was seated alone at the far end of the bar. She was not pretty, but she received the automatic attention any blonde in a bar receives. He was surprised when she looked up and smiled at him. He smiled back courteously and then sipped at his drink, pleased she had noticed him, more convinced than ever that the evening would make up for the day. Something stupid was on the television set. He watched it for a moment, identifying Ken Maynard, Bob Steele, and Hoot Gibson. What did they call Maynard’s horse? Trigger? Champion? Oh hell. It annoyed him. He kept watching the movie and sipping at his drink, and he finally called over the bartender and asked, “What’s his horses’s name?”

The bartender stared at him as if he were drunk, and he found this amusing.

“Whose horse?” the bartender asked.

“Ken Maynard’s.”

The bartender fixed him with a contemptuous stare. “Tarzan!”

Griff snapped his fingers. “Tarzan! Of course.” The “of course” suddenly reminded him of McQuade. Of course, of course. Pee on McQuade, he thought, both barrels.

He left the bar at seven fifty-five, imagining the blonde sighed wistfully as he went to the door. The rain had let up a little, and he walked up the Concourse cheerfully, thinking of the games he’d seen at the Stadium, wondering if Cara liked baseball, wondering what he would do if she didn’t like baseball. He was twenty-nine years old, and the idea of changing his ways did not particularly appeal to him, especially if it meant forsaking baseball. Well, she probably did like baseball. He would ask her.

He found the address easily enough and stepped into the well-kept foyer of the building. He examined the bell buttons in the foyer, saw she was on the ground floor, and then walked into the lobby, looking for the apartment number. He saw the white letters on the small black shingle immediately: FREDERICK KNOWLES, D.D.S.

A dentist. Well now! He remembered the old joke, is he a doctor doctor? No, he’s a doctor dentist. Smiling, he pushed the chime panel set in the door jamb. He waited patiently, and then he heard footsteps and a voice coming from somewhere in the depths of the apartment. “Just a moment.” He realized abruptly that he had used the office entrance, and that there probably was another entrance to the apartment, and he felt somewhat foolish.

He heard the peephole flap swing back and then fall again, and then the door was opened, and he stared into the darkness of the waiting room.

“Hi,” Cara said. “Do you have a toothache?” She said it almost automatically, and he sensed it was a gag line she’d used before whenever a calling swain had made the same mistake. The knowledge that he was getting secondhand humor annoyed him. He forgot his annoyance and said, “Yes, a bicuspid at the back of my mouth. Can you fix it?”

“Come on in,” Cara said. “I won’t be a moment.”

He stepped into the waiting room, and she threw on a light and said, “Do you want to wait here, or do you prefer the comforts of the living room? I’d introduce you to the family, but only the dog is home.”

“I’ll wait here,” Griff said.

“Fine.” She looked at him and said, “You look nice.”

He felt suddenly embarrassed. She had beat him to the punch, and now anything he said about her appearance would seem like a bald-faced return of her compliment. He tried to gag it through.

“You look ravished,” he said, and then he snapped his fingers in seeming Freudian-slip annoyance. “Ravishing, I mean.”

“Thank you, sir,” Cara said, and then she fled into the depths of the apartment.

Actually, he had been a little disappointed with her appearance. He had expected something gayer, he supposed, but she was wearing a black silk dress with a rather high throat, a string of pearls at the neck. He had noticed the Julien Kahn suede pumps almost instantly, and had begun to price them automatically before he’d caught himself. He realized with a start that he’d been disappointed because the dress did not reveal the tiny beauty spot in the hollow of her throat, and he smiled at his own fetish. He found a chair in the waiting room, picked up a copy of Life, and began to feel as if he were really waiting to have a tooth extracted. This is psychologically bad, he thought. I must tell Cara she shouldn’t make her beaus feel as if they have a dental appointment.

Next time, use the right door, stupid, he further thought.

She came back in about ten minutes, a sheared beaver coat slung over her arm. He could see the embroidered name “Jean Knowles” on the lining of the coat, and he knew she had borrowed it from her mother or her sister, and this somehow combined with the secondhand greeting she’d given him to put a sour taste in his mouth. He took the coat and helped her into it.

“Will I need an umbrella?” she asked.

“It was only drizzling when I came in,” he said.

“Okay, we’ll skip the umbrella.” She smiled brightly. “Shall we go?”

“Any time you say.”

“I say now,” she said.

She threw the snap lock on the apartment door and slammed the door behind her. When they reached the foyer of the building, they looked out at the sidewalk. It was pouring bullets, the rain coming in sharp slanting sheets.

“Drizzle,” she said. “I’ll go back for the umbrella.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said guiltily.

“No, that’s all right.”

He stood alone and looked out at the rain, waiting for her return. He was disappointed thus far, but he told himself to snap out of it, everything would work out, what the hell did he expect so soon, their first date, did he want her to greet him on the living-room couch, her skirt up over her head? The thought startled him a bit because he had not seriously considered the idea of taking Cara Knowles to bed until just now. He toyed with the idea for a moment, and then put it out of his mind, not realizing that the idea was all a part of his initial disappointment, not realizing that he had already disqualified her as any serious contender for his heart. When she returned with the umbrella, he opened it for her and stepped out into the rain first. It was a woman’s umbrella, dainty and small. She climbed under it and he found half of his body in the rain, and this annoyed the hell out of him, even though he’d willingly walked in the rain without any covering before.

“We certainly picked a night, didn’t we?” she said.

“It doesn’t matter much,” he told her. “We’ve got a car, and we’ll be inside most of the night anyway.”

“I like rain, anyway,” she said. “Sometimes I just put on a raincoat and galoshes and go walking up the Concourse in the rain. It’s very soothing.”

He had the feeling that she had said this many times, too. “Is it?” he asked.

“If you like rain,” she answered, smiling.

They reached the car, and he unlocked the door for her and helped her in. He went around to his side and stood in the rain for several moments before she realized his door was locked and slid over to open it for him.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t realize—”

“That’s all right,” he said. “Rain makes you grow.”

“You’ve had enough tonight to make you another McQuade.”

The reference bothered him. He told himself it was male vanity, but it still bothered him. He was not exactly a half pint, even if he were not as tall as McQuade. He started the car and swung around to the Concourse.

“One good thing about rain,” he said, “it keeps folks at home. We’ll have a dance floor we can really dance on.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I thought one of the places up on Central Avenue.”

“Oh, fine,” she said. “This is a good night for drinking and dancing, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” He wanted to say more but he couldn’t find words. He shut up, painfully aware of the silence that had shouldered its way into the car.

“This is a nice car,” she said. “What is it?”

“Oldsmobile,” he answered.

“It’s very nice.”

“Well, it gets me where I want to go.” The cliché rang in his ears. He almost winced.

“That’s the important thing, I suppose.” She paused. “Did you notice I’m wearing Julien Kahn shoes?”

“I noticed them right off. Black Magic.”

“Is that their name?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“We make good shoes.”

“Yes, of course.” Dammit, there it was again. Of course, of course, of course. “We’re one of the top houses,” he said lamely.

“Have you been with the firm long?”

“Eleven years,” he said.

“Not really?”

“Yes. Yes, I have. Why?”

“No, it’s just that I don’t know anyone who’s been with anyplace for such a long time. You must really like your job.”

“I do.”

“I can see why it would be exciting. A fashion shoe, there’s always a little glamour that rubs off, I suppose.”

“Don’t you like your job?”

“Well, it’s all right. It gets a little dull sometimes, and Mr. Manelli isn’t exactly an exciting man to work for, if you know what I mean.”

“He’s something of a clod,” Griff said. “I can see your point there.”

“Do you like Manelli?”

“Well…” Griff smiled. “Why don’t we forget all about Julien Kahn for a while, okay? We’ll pretend the factory doesn’t even exist.”

“That would suit me fine,” Cara said.

They went to a place called Skippy’s, and Griff was surprised to find it packed to the eyeballs, in spite of the rain. Their waiter took them to a table too close to the bandstand, but there was nothing else available, and they realized all the places along Central Avenue would probably be just as crowded. There was a good deal of noise in Skippy’s, and a good deal of smoke, and when the band started playing, they could barely hear each other speak. They fled to the dance floor. The floor was jampacked. Cara felt good in his arms, but it was almost impossible to dance, and he felt hot and awkward and clumsy. She was pressed tight against him, her body molded against his. He could feel the mounds of her breasts through the thin dress she was wearing, and below that the firmness of her stomach. He realized abruptly that no one on the floor was really dancing. It was a sort of vertical fornication exhibition, and the thought embarrassed him and he sensed Cara’s embarrassment at the same moment. It was as if they had been stripped naked and thrown against each other. Her body against his did not excite him; his embarrassment squashed any excitement he might have ordinarily felt, making him feel like a degenerate in a crowded subway car. He wondered if Cara thought he was enjoying this, and he wanted to say something about it, but he figured any mention of it would only aggravate the situation. For a brief moment, there was an open spot on the dance floor. He moved into it, and Cara pulled her body from his gently, and then the spot closed in upon them, shoving her against him with rude forcefulness, exaggerating their nakedness.

“We’d better sit down,” he said.

She nodded and smiled tremulously, but there was something of accusation in the smile. They fought their way back to the table, and he grasped for his drink anxiously.

The trumpet player blasted away at his back.

“It’s pretty crowded,” he shouted.

“Yes,” she said. She seemed to want to adjust her clothes, like a prostitute after a brief tussle in bed with a stranger.

“I had no idea—” he started, but a trombone behind him ended the sentence for him in a throaty growl which seemed never to finish. He waited until the piano chorus, and then he said, “This is a good night to get pleasantly looped, don’t you think?”

“It might not be a bad idea,” she said, and then she sighed a curiously forlorn sigh.

They began drinking in earnest. There was a feverishness about the way they drank. It was as if they both realized this evening was going to be a bust, and they had to do something about it, and damned fast. They had to dull their senses, they had to weave a fantasy which did not exist, they had to become a part of something they had both expected and which somehow had not materialized. They drank quickly, hardly tasting what they drank, drinking because they wanted to get as high as possible as soon as possible. And perhaps because they drank so determinedly, their drunkenness was a long time coming, and even when it came, it produced a forced gaiety which was as strained as their earlier sobriety had been. The liquor put a high flush on Cara’s face, and it darkened the brownness of her eyes, giving her a somewhat feral expression which she had not worn at the start of the evening.

“What’s the use?” she said to him thickly.

“What’s what use?” he answered.

“What’s the use?” she repeated, leaning over the table toward him. “You get a pattern, and then you got a pattern.”

“You talking about shoes?” he asked, trying to keep her in focus.

“People,” she said. “I’m talking about people.”

“What about people?”

“You’re a doll,” she said. “Mmmm, you’re a doll,” and there was something savage in her face now. Her lips were skinned back over her teeth, and her eyes held his unwaveringly. “Dance with me, doll,” she said.

He looked at the animal expression on her face, and he told himself he was imagining the look. It was harsh and cold and in some way he could not make out it was curiously related to the expression he had noticed the first time he met her.

“Come,” she said, “dance.” The word escaped her lips like a hiss. “Dance with me. Dance with me.”

They went back into the churning morass of bodies on the floor, and this time they became a part of the exhibition. Where she had strained to keep her body away from his before, she did not resist now. Where he had tried to keep a loose arm around her waist earlier, he found his arm tightening now. They were naked again, but this time they had tasted the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, and the evil was good, and they used their bodies together, and they enjoyed each other’s nakedness. He was excited this time, and he knew she could feel his excitement through the thinnness of her dress, and he felt her straining against him, and he pulled her closer and closer, tighter and tighter, and then all at once the shame hit both of them again, but this time it was a shame bred of guilt. The glow of the alcohol had suddenly evaporated, and with it the sham gay world they had consciously created. They pulled away from each other simultaneously, avoid each other’s eyes, not wanting to touch each other again. Their intimacy had been falsely generated. They had behaved like lovers when they were not yet even friends, and the knowledge was a little shocking — and a little disgusting.

They left Skippy’s, and they drove down Central Avenue and then down Jerome Avenue and onto the Concourse. They did not speak much. They listened to the music on the radio, and they listened to the snickering slap of the windshield wipers and the gentle whisper of the tires against wet asphalt. They both knew the night had been a failure, and so they did not speak of it.

Amazingly, they bore no enmity toward each other. They parted as friends who had been through something of an ordeal together.

He told her he would see her on Monday, at the factory. She smiled and thanked him for a wonderful evening, and he lied back and said no, thank you.

He unlocked her door for her, and she took his hand and squeezed it warmly for an instant, in perhaps the first honest display of emotion either of them had felt all evening long.

He did not kiss her good night.

She disappeared into the blackness of the waiting room, and then she closed the door gently.

He walked out into the rain.

Dave Stiegman tapped the letter in his hand and then threw it across the desk to Ed Posnansky.

“What the hell is this guy talking about?” he asked. It was a mild day for March, and from the sixteenth-floor suite of the Chrysler Building he could see New York lying at his feet.

Posnansky extended his short thin frame and reached for the letter. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and then began reading. Stiegman watched him, waiting for his reaction. In the street below, he could hear the moving stream of traffic and people. He suddenly wanted to go down there in the street, watching skirts blowing, seeing pretty legs. America has very pretty legs, he thought. Stiegman was a married man who had begun to feel the itch. The itch was very strong in Stiegman. He put the feeling aside and tried to concentrate on shoes.

“He’s crazy,” Posnansky said, tossing the letter back to the desk.

“He may be crazy,” Stiegman answered, “but he says we shipped him a pair of house slippers, and he says he still has them in the box to prove it.”

“Now why in hell would we ship him a pair of house slippers?” Posnansky asked. “We don’t even make house slippers.”

“He says they were old house slippers,” Stiegman said.

“He’s nuts. Every week, one of our vast consuming public sends us a crank letter like this one. We had one last week from some old bag in Iowa who said the white skin on her cobra shoe was turning blue. Now, how the hell could it turn blue? These people must think we’re all idiots here.”

Stiegman shrugged and consulted the letter again. This was not a crank letter from one of the “vast consuming public.” This was a complaint from a big account, and Titanic sure as hell wouldn’t appreciate a foul-up of this sort if it came to their attention.

“He says he ordered thirty pair, fifteen of which were our Flare pattern, which is going very well with him.”

“I read the letter,” Posnansky said. “He’s nuts.”

“He says he was going through the belly sizes,” Stiegman went on, unperturbed, “when he found a pair of house slippers in place of the 7A he’d ordered.”

“You know what he can do with his house slippers, don’t you?” Posnansky said.

“Oh, come on, Ed, give me a little attention, will you? If the son of a bitch got house slippers, he’s got a legitimate beef.”

“How could he get house slippers from us?” Posnansky asked. “He probably gets his slippers from another outfit, and he’s trying to stick us for a pair of shoes. Can’t you see he’s a chiseler?”

“This is our biggest account in Philly,” Stiegman said quietly.

“Big outfits can be crooks, too.”

“I can’t picture the buyer of a big shop going crooked over a pair of shoes, especially when he does such a volume with us. We do thousands of dollars of business with this man each year, Ed. Even if he has fouled up someplace, we ought to send him another pair of shoes.”

“So send them to him. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is how do we account for the pair that supposedly went to him already?”

“That’s Factory’s problem.”

“Shall I call Manelli?”

“Go ahead,” Posnansky said. “Call Manelli if you want to. I really don’t see what the hell all the noise is about. A lousy pair of twelve-dollar shoes, and you act as if—”

“How’s your ulcer this morning, Ed?” Stiegman asked, reaching for the phone.

“Screw you, amigo,” Posnansky said, unsmiling.

It was quiet and lonely in the office with both Aaron and Griff gone. She had never realized before just how much life they added to her working day. She knew, of course, that with Guild Week less than a month off both men had a hell of a lot of work to do in preparation, but it still seemed unfair of them to leave her alone up here on the ninth floor. Oh, there were diversions, true enough, but somehow they weren’t the same. Danny Quinn was a nice enough fellow, and she appreciated his stopping in to chat every now and then, but he always talked of his coming baby, and a girl can get sort of fed up with that sort of thing after a while.

And Magruder came in often, too, but he only came to look at her legs, and he looked at her legs differently, in a way that made her want to pull her skirt down to her ankles. It was one thing to appreciate, and another to drool. Aaron and Griff were sincere appreciators. They made her feel good, but they didn’t make her feel naked. There was a difference.

Unless a girl were an out-and-out-flirt.

She did not consider herself that. She had begun showing her legs when she was fifteen, when she first realized she had something to show. She had abhorred the New Look when it popped onto the fashion scene, despising the long skirts that showed little more than her ankle. She’d cheated a little even then, wearing her skirts higher than most, but still not too high to be called unfashionable. And, oh, she had flirted, and she still flirted, and her legs were certainly her most valuable persuaders, but there was a vast difference between a girl who flirted occasionally and a girl who made it a profession. She showed her legs because they were good to look at, the way a girl with a thirty-eight bust favors low-cut blouses.

Well, in any case, there was no one to look at her legs now, not even Magruder. It was annoying, Aaron and Griff running around the factory costing samples like that. Of course, the samples were stunning, and, oh, that alligator lizard shoe had been a dream. In her mind, she formed a vague picture of herself modeling that shoe at the Guild Week showings, wearing a trim suit perhaps, a good Engish tweed maybe, or something with a man-tailored cut; those should go well with the reptile. She burst the bubble almost instantly, a little miffed because she knew her legs were a lot better than those of half the models Kahn used.

She took her purse from the desk drawer and reached for her lipstick, lipstick brush, and mirror. She touched up her lips idly, not feeling like working in an empty office. Working in an empty office was too much like work. She put the stuff back into her purse and then rummaged around among the items inside, as if she were seeing them for the first time. She fished out the identification card that had been issued to her just the day before. It had never occurred to her, before the card was issued, that anyone but a Julien Kahn employee would want to get into the factory. Besides, didn’t the watchmen know everyone who worked here?

And why would anyone want to sneak in? He certainly couldn’t sneak out again, not carrying stolen shoes or anything. Abruptly, she remembered the memo that had come around concerning the girl in Packing. That had been something, all right; why hadn’t the silly thing simply gone to Mauro in Wholesale Adjustment? He’d have fixed her with a pair of slightly damaged shoes at cost, and really the damage was usually so slight that no one could even notice it unless you pointed it out specifically. Well, perhaps the girl was an inborn crook; there were people like that, she supposed.

Perhaps that’s why the identification cards had been issued. Oh, not to prevent anyone from walking out with anything, because that was almost impossible anyway, although she had heard of girls walking out with shoes under their armpits, wearing heavy boxcoats, in the wintertime. But those were isolated examples, and she was sure the identification cards couldn’t stop something like that anyway. But supposing an I. Miller spy sneaked into the factory and stole all our patterns? Or someone from Andrew Geller’s. Now, that was something to contend with. Now that every employee had an identification card, it would be a little difficult for any unauthorized person to get in.

She looked at the celluloid card. The front of the card was printed with a very colorful design, and she studied that now. The card was mostly red, except for a white disk in its center. The red was a bright cheerful scarlet, and the white glistened like snow. In the center of the white disk, the artist had placed the bold black silhouette of a fashion shoe. It was really quite effective, and certainly distinctive. She turned the card over and read the back with her name and description, together with the department in which she worked. Of course, the watchmen never looked at the back of the card. During the past few days, she had only flashed it at the gate. Still, there was something very nice about having the card in her purse, like belonging to a sorority or something; oh, that was silly, but it made her feel that way nonetheless, sort of proud that she worked for Julien Kahn. She shrugged and put the card back into her purse.

When she looked up, McQuade was standing there. He gave her a start, and she sucked in an involuntary gasp.

“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You came up so quietly, Mr. McQuade,” she said, letting out her breath.

He glanced around the office quickly. “All alone, Marge?”

“Yes,” she said, thankful for his presence. “Isn’t it a drudge?”

“I suppose it can be,” McQuade said. He walked over to the windows and looked out over the surrounding rooftops. She wondered what time it was, and glanced at her watch swiftly. Three-thirty. Romeo and Juliet would have gone back to work long ago. She found herself sighing with relief, and she wondered abruptly if she were really thankful for McQuade’s presence. There was something frightening about him, oh, not his power, not that, so he was from Titanic, so what, that had nothing whatever to do with it. If Titanic didn’t like the way she worked, they could fire her. She’d certainly have no trouble getting a job elsewhere. But there was something too masculine about him, something animalistic almost, something almost supernaturally animal, like a prime gorilla specimen. She could visualize him in a museum someplace, tagged like the other animals as a superexample of Homo sapiens. And this was what frightened her. She had never known anyone quite so handsome. The other men she’d known had all possessed their own personal flaws, but she searched in vain for a flaw in McQuade’s physical appearance. However, this perfection — rather than elevating him above other men, as a man among lesser men — had somehow lowered him to the status of animal, pure animal. He was the golden dream of every adolescent American girl, bulging with impossible muscles, grinning with impossible smiles. She could smell manhood on him. She could smell masculinity, the way a cow in heat can smell a bull, and in much the same way the smell frightened her. He was too much a man, and so he had been labeled with scientific precision: Gorilla. Ox. Man.

She did not pretend that he was unstimulating. The first time he had walked into the office, she had been completely overwhelmed. That first day — she could still remember it clearly — she had involuntarily lifted her skirts for him, showing her legs, pretending she was worried about a run, but not pretending the way she did with Aaron and Griff, pretending in a compulsive way, a startling reflexive way that urged her to lift her skirts, forced her to show her legs to this superior being. She had been ashamed immediately afterward, but she could still remember the way she wiggled her backside on the way out of the office, even with the shame still upon her, even then, as if she had to show this man that somehow she too possessed a beauty, as if she were offering her very small beauty before the shining altar of his magnificent splendor.

He had not seemed to notice. She knew there were many men who only pretended indifference, but she suspected McQuade’s attitude was not a pose.

She had diligently fought the compulsion ever since. When McQuade was in the office, the skirts of Marge Gannon were tucked demurely about her legs. She sat upon them like a prim spinster. But she could not kid herself into thinking the compulsion was not there. She was always aware of him physically, aware in a painfully curious female way, mystified by her own chemical reaction to his maleness.

“I’ve heard fantastic things about our neighboring rooftops,” McQuade said drily.

“Have you?” she said. She automatically tucked her skirts tighter under her, and then began typing.

“Yes.” He dismissed the topic with that single word and turned from the windows. “So what is our pretty little typist working on today?” he asked; smiling.

“Toil, toil, labor and toil,” she chanted. In truth, she hadn’t been working on a hell of a lot since long before lunchtime.

“I’ve always envied people who could type,” McQuade said. “The typewriter will always be a maliciously complex instrument, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Can’t you type?” Marge asked.

McQuade shook his head. “I should learn, I know.” He paused. “What are you doing hidden away in this malodorous factory, anyway, Marge?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. McQuade,” she said archly. She was aware that her foot had begun swinging under her desk. She did not stop its swing.

“You’re too pretty for this smelly dump,” he said vehemently.

He surprised her. She had honestly believed she’d made no more impression upon him than one of the desks. Faced with the newly gained knowledge that he had noticed her, the old panic returned, and with it a strange sort of excitement flowed through her veins. She swung her chair around, her foot swinging. She wore a gold ankle bracelet, and it caught the rays of the sun now, reflecting dizzily.

“Why, thank you,” she said. Her hand dropped to her skirt. She fought to put her hand back on the desk top, but it would not obey the command of her mind.

“You should quit,” he said. His eyes dropped to the swinging foot. “You should use those legs for modeling stockings or something.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked. She could feel the excitement raging within her now, and she sought to put it out, but the compulsive blanket she used only fanned the flames higher. She was unconsciously aware of her hand, and she knew that hand was flat on her thigh now, and she could feel the pressure of it as it pulled the skirt back over her knee, but she could do nothing to stop it.

“Yes,” McQuade said slowly. “I think so.”

He stopped before her desk, hulking over it, seeming bigger than he really was with the sunlight behind him. She looked up at him, and again her hand moved, a fraction of an inch, a tiny barely perceptible fraction of an inch, raising her skirt over her knee now, and then just a little bit higher, the foot jiggling, the ankle bracelet catching the feeble rays of the March sun.

She was very frightened. She was terribly frightened now, but she could do nothing to stop the motion of her hand or the jiggling of her foot. She wanted him to look at her legs. She wanted him to stare at her legs with those hooded gray eyes of his. She wanted to see some response in those eyes. She wanted terribly to feel like a Woman in the presence of this Man. She wanted to feel like all women, like Everywoman. And beneath this desire, her conscious mind told her that he was a man who could help her model, and her hand moved higher, carrying the skirt with it.

McQuade sat on the edge of her desk. His eyes did not leave her face. He glanced at her legs only once, before she had begun raising her skirt. The skirt was quite high now, no higher than she raised it whenever she searched for a run, but high in a different way now, high in a way that burned her flesh. She could feel her cheeks flaming. She felt wanton and cheap, and most of all she felt this sick panic inside her, this panic that screamed for her to stop, stop, but she would not stop.

She knew the skirt was past the ribbings of her stockings now. She knew her legs were good, and she knew they looked better in the high-heeled pumps she was wearing. Why wouldn’t he look down at her legs, why wouldn’t he, what kind of man was he, why, why? Look at me, you louse, look at me, look at me, let me see some life in those eyes of yours, let me see you looking at me, let me…

“What does a girl like you want here, anyway?” McQuade asked gently.

The words came to her lips before she could stop them. “A girl like me wants to model at the Guild Week showing,” she said.

McQuade smiled. His eyes did not leave her face. His hand moved effortlessly, almost gracefully, dropping to her thigh. His fingers tightened on her flesh, tightened like a vise, gripping the nylon and the skin until she wanted to scream in pain.

“That might be arranged,” he said.

He released her suddenly and slid off the desk. He walked to the door and out into the corridor without looking back at her.

She could see the bruise marks his fingers had left on her thigh. She stared at them, and then she shuddered and pulled down her skirt. When she began trembling, she really did not know how frightened she was. She took her purse from the desk drawer and went to the ladies’ room.

She began sobbing quietly then.

John Grant was a union delegate.

He was a busy man who represented several other factories besides Julien Kahn. On the day that Bob Gardiner — the shop steward in Kahn’s Packing Room — called him, Grant’s desk was piled to the ceiling. He was not in a mood to listen to complaints.

“Grant here,” he said.

“Mr. Grant?” Gardiner said.

“Yes, yes.”

“This is Bob Gardiner. I’m a shop steward at—”

“I remember you, Bob,” Grant said. “How are you?”

“Fine. Mr. Grant, we’ve got troubles here at Julien Kahn. They sent this guy up from Titanic, and he turned a hose on two workers in the Cutting Room, and just because a pair of shoes was stolen in—”

“Just a minute, just a minute,” Grant said. “Give it to me slowly, will you?”

Gardiner gave it to him slowly. Grant listened. He knew the union didn’t have a leg to stand on in either the hosing incident or the theft. A fist fight always meant automatic expulsion, and theft was an unpardonable sin. But he listened to Gardiner patiently and when Gardiner came to the firings at Kahn, Grant realized that here was something else again and decided to use those firings as a wedge.

“Let me see what I can do,” he said. “I’ll call you back.”

“Thanks a lot, Mr. Grant,” Gardiner said. “I’ll be waiting.”

Gardiner was pretty happy about Grant’s reactions, because he knew he belonged to a fairly powerful union, and he was certain the union would work out this problem for the men. That’s what unions were for, to protect the workers. Certainty, under the old Kahn regime, they’d never had any trouble with the company. Oh, slowdowns and things like that, and once a general sitdown — he could still remember blowing the signal whistle in his department — but nothing serious. The Kahns had always come across.

So he was rather pleased, and he was even more so when Grant called him back to tell him he’d arranged a meeting for later that week, and would he come with two other shop stewards and they’d try to iron this thing out. Gardiner said he’d certainly be there. He chose his stewards, and he looked forward to the meeting with a good deal of excitement and pleasant anticipation.

The meeting had been called for Thursday, April 1. Gardiner’s two other shop stewards were a man from Stock-fitting named George Hensen and a man from Bottoming named Alec Karojilian. John Grant was there as union delegate. The foursome represented Labor.

Joseph Manelli and the company’s labor man, the man who set the pay rate for piecework, a man named Sal Valdero, were there representing Management. Jefferson McQuade went along “just for the ride.”

The men met in Manelli’s office, and Manelli was most cordial, behaving like the perfect genial host, passing out cigars and introducing everyone to McQuade, and asking everyone if they’d care for a little schnapps, eh? The men — with the exception of, McQuade — all accepted the smokes and declined the drink. McQuade neither drank nor smoked.

They sat around and lighted up, and Manelli beamed at them from behind his desk and said, “Well, fellers, to what do I owe the honor of this meeting?”

The men all laughed a little and enjoyed the aromatic pleasure of the fifty-cent cigars Manelli had handed out (cigars which Kurz had left behind in the desk humidor) and then they cleared their throats and got down to business. It was a little difficult to get down to business with McQuade sitting there. McQuade, as it happened, was a major part of their business that day.

“I understand there’s been a lot of unrest in the factory, Mr. Manelli,” Grant said, glancing at McQuade.

“Is that right, John? What sort of unrest?”

“The wholesale firings for one thing. The men tell me—”

“The men don’t like the way people are getting fired right and left,” Gardiner said.

“Well,” Manelli said, spreading his hands, “what can we do, fellers? You know as well as I do that this is a business and not a charity organization. When a man’s got to go, he’s simply got to go.”

“Seems like an awful lot have been going lately,” George Hensen said sourly.

“Well,” Manelli said, “we’re trying to modernize this business, George. We’re trying to make it a better place in which to work. That means clearing out the dead wood. More profits mean higher wages for those men who remain. I’m sure you know that.”

“We haven’t seen any higher wages yet,” Hensen said, glancing at McQuade. “We only see people getting fired, and we don’t like it.” McQuade remained silent, staring thoughtfully at his hands.

“There’s more to this than just the firings, Mr. Manelli,” Gardiner ventured. “A lot of us have been working for Kahn for a good many years now. We like Kahn, and we like making shoes, and so we’ve stayed on. But there was always a healthy respect for the working man here, and now there doesn’t seem to be that respect any more.”

“How do you mean, Bob?” Manelli asked.

“Well…” Gardiner looked at McQuade. “Everybody knows about what happened to those two cutters. Now, really, Mr. Manelli, that’s a hell of a way to treat a human being. We’re not slaves here, you know, and we’re not prisoners, either. I mean, turning a fire hose onto—”

“Those two men were ready to kill each other, Bob,” Manelli said.

“Kill, yeah, maybe,” Gardiner answered. “They didn’t kill each other before the hose was turned on, though, did they? And chances are they wouldn’t have killed each other, neither. But that’s not the point. The point is, we got our dignity, too, and you don’t go turning fire hoses on people. What is this, Alcatraz?”

“On the contrary,” McQuade said suddenly.

“Do you have any ideas on this, Mac?” Manelli asked, grateful to have been let off the hook.

“Yes, a few,” McQuade said. “I don’t want to interrupt, though, without the permission of everyone present. After all, it’s your problem and not mine.” He smiled graciously. “Besides, I keep remembering what one Mr. Grant did to us back in the eighteen-hundreds, and I’m a little leery of getting into an engagement with another one now.”

John Grant chuckled, but at the same time he told himself to watch out for McQuade, who seemed to be a pretty smooth character. “I’d like to hear what you have to say, Mr. McQuade,” he said, puffing on his cigar. “I understand it was you who turned the hose on.”

“Yes,” McQuade said, “that’s right. I did turn the hose on, but only as a last resort. You’ll forgive my saying so, Mr. Grant, but neither you nor any of these men were up on the eighth floor that day. You did not see those cutters, and so you don’t know how close they were to doing actual physical harm to each other, and perhaps to throwing the entire floor into a state of panic.”

“Still—”

“I think, Mr. Grant,” McQuade went on forcefully, “that you would have done the same thing under the circumstances. I assure you, I do not have a cruel or insensitive soul. I was trying to stop a fight which might have led to a free-for-all in the Cutting Room, a dangerous place — you will admit — for any display of violence.”

“You could have stopped them by—”

“Mr. Grant,” McQuade said, “there is only one way to combat force, and that is by counterforce. Do you talk logic to a man with a knife in his hand, Mr. Grant? You do not. You kick him in the groin.” McQuade smiled disarmingly. “I wasn’t brave enough to walk out there and kick either of those two men. I used a fire hose instead. I think I did the right thing.” His voice lowered. “Believe me, Mr. Grant, I was not thinking of dignity or lack of dignity. I was thinking of the safety, yes, the safety and well-being of every citizen of this company.” He paused. “Are you surprised that I call them citizens? Please don’t be. I consider this factory a city, or even a small state, if you will. Everyone working here is a citizen, and he is entitled to his rights as a citizen, but those rights do not include endangering the lives of fellow citizens.”

“Do they include the right of trial by jury?” Gardiner asked.

“Eh?” McQuade asked, off guard for a moment.

“Mr. McQuade,” Gardiner said, “you’re a good talker and you’re probably a very nice fellow, and I got nothing against you personally, believe me. But I’ve worked for Julien Kahn for close to twenty-five years now, from when he had only the old factory, and I’m a little bit older than you are, and maybe I know just a little bit more about how the workers in this factory feel. And I can tell you they don’t like to be shoved around. All right, you call them citizens; well, if they are citizens they want to be treated like citizens, and I don’t know of any citizen friends of mine who were ever dragged into a police station and accused of a crime they didn’t commit.”

“Are you referring to Martha Goldstein?” McQuade asked.

“Martha Goldstein is a good woman, and she’s been with us a long time. I’m talking about her, and I’m also talking about Maria who used to work in my department.”

“What about Maria? She did steal a pair of shoes, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, she did. I suppose she did. But that’s no reason to treat her like an animal. She told me what happened, Mr. McQuade, and she told a lot of other people, too, and I can tell you that doesn’t help build any good will for Titanic.”

“No,” McQuade said, “but perhaps it will stop stealing. You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Gardiner—”

“I understand fine,” Gardiner said. “I understand that—”

“Now, now, fellers,” Manelli said.

“May I finish please, Joe?” McQuade asked. “You don’t seem to understand that the good of the factory is the good of the workers.” He turned to Grant. “Look, John — may I call you John? — Titanic is interested in your people. Titanic—”

“Titanic sure shows it in a funny way,” Gardiner said.

“Titanic is going to do a lot for you. Have you been on the eighth floor recently? New toilets are already being installed, and new lighting fixtures, and new—”

“We can’t eat toilets or electric lights,” Karojilian said.

“Nor do we expect you to,” McQuade said, smiling.

“We want to know why all those people were fired,” Hensen said.

“Economy,” McQuade said.

Grant cleared his throat. “Mr. McQuade,” he said, “keep the toilets and keep the Coke machines. These men want assurance that they’re not going to be out in the street tomorrow, and if you can’t give them that assurance—”

“I can,” McQuade said.

“Then why were those men dropped from Lasting? And Heeling? And what about the eagle-eyer? Why was he—”

“He was costing us money, and he was not essential to the operation. Nor were the other men we dropped. The departments are functioning perfectly without them.”

“I find that a little hard to swallow, Mr. McQuade,” Grant said. “Are you trying to tell me that men who’ve been with the company for ten, fifteen years are suddenly no longer essential to the operation? Now how am I expected to swallow that?”

“You’re not expected to swallow anything, John,” McQuade said. “But if I showed you books, would that help? If I showed you that the release of those men boosted our profit without any loss in production, would that validate my argument?”

“Well…” Grant paused. “I’d have to see the books.”

“And I’ll show you the books, whenever you want to see them.”

“Well…” Grant paused again. “I can only tell you what the men are thinking, and they sure as hell ain’t happy, Mr. McQuade. Now, we’ve got ways to beat this, you know. We’re a strong union. You ain’t been here long, so you can’t appreciate the loss you’d suffer if we called a slowdown or a sitdown. Instead of twenty-six hundred pairs a day, you’d get a thousand pairs, and see if Titanic could stand up under that loss.”

McQuade smiled happily. “In the first place, John, I don’t see what you have to beat. There’s really nothing to beat when you get down to facts. In the second place — and please listen carefully because I’ll say it only once, and I hope it penetrates — if we get union trouble, Titanic can close this whole damned factory tomorrow, and not miss it one damned bit. Now, what do you think of that?”

“I doubt if Titanic would do that, Mr. McQuade,” Grant said confidently. “I don’t know how many millions of dollars were involved in this purchase but even Titanic doesn’t buy factories just to close them.”

“Of course not,” McQuade said, “but it can be done. Titanic closed down a factory in New Hampshire because of union trouble, and, when the union still wouldn’t play ball, we moved that factory down to Georgia, and that’s right where it sits today. We threw that whole damned town out of work, John, so do you think we’d hesitate over a tiny little factory in New Jersey?”

“I can see your point, Mr. McQuade,” Grant said calmly, “but I don’t think it would be feasible to transport Julien Kahn to Georgia. You can undoubtedly get labor down there, Mr. McQuade, but you’re not going to get the Donatos and the Cohens down there, and these are the men who know how to make shoes. You’re running a fashion house here, Mr. McQuade. Quality is your product. You can’t pull in a bunch of farmers and run your factory with them.” Grant paused. “It’s your Italians and your Jews and your Poles who are running those sewing machines for you, Mr. McQuade. You won’t find them down in Georgia.”

“Then we’ll move the factory to wherever we can find them,” McQuade said.

Grant chewed his cigar silently for a moment. “I thought Titanic was for the workers,” he said at last.

“Ah, but only if the workers are for Titanic,” McQuade said.

“I see. Then there’s no sense talking.”

“There’s a lot of sense talking,” McQuade said, “a whole hell of a lot of sense. What, when you get right down to it, is your beef? Are you sore because two men didn’t kill themselves on the eighth floor? Are you sore because we caught a thief on the second floor? Are you sore because we’re trying to give your people better working conditions, safer conditions, cleaner conditions? Are you sore because we’re trying our damnedest to increase production so that your workers will be able to share in increased profits? Are you sore because we’re declaring bonuses? Are you sore because we’re trying to turn a rusting, filth-clogged machine into a well-oiled, smoothly functioning one? When you get right down to it, men, just what the hell are you sore about?”

“These firings—” Hensen started.

“What about them? Were you fired, Hensen?”

“No, but others were. I’m a shop steward, and when I see—”

“But how have these firings harmed you, Hensen, you as a citizen of the factory? Have you been touched? These people were getting paid for doing nothing. These people were stealing money out of your pocket, Hensen!”

“Well…”

“Think it over.”

Hensen remained silent, thinking.

“Look at it this way, Hensen. Suppose we divided up the money those men were earning. Suppose we did that and added it to each worker’s salary, would you be happy then? Of course you would. Don’t you see, if we stop cheating the company, the worker gains, the worker can’t help but gain.”

“I don’t see any of that money being divided up,” Hensen said.

“I was coming to that,” McQuade said.

The men were suddenly silent.

“John,” McQuade said, “you may have been wondering what Sal, our labor man, is doing here. Well, if you’ll stay after the meeting, you’ll find out. I want to sit down together, the three of us, and work out a pay raise for the men. Understand, of course, that we can’t go too high at the moment, not with all the expensive changes we’re making. But we can afford a little more than we’ve been giving, and once we increase our pairage per day, I can promise a hell of a lot of overtime — but necessary and important overtime. I’d like to work this all out with you and Sal.”

Grant smiled. “I’d be very happy to stay, Mr. McQuade.”

“Good,” McQuade said, nodding. “And to clear up this other thing that seems to be bothering you, let me assure you that the firings are over and done with.”

“How do you mean?” Grant asked.

“Over and done with,” McQuade repeated. “You expected firings, didn’t you? Has there ever been a merger without resultant firings? I can’t think of any. But we’ve done all the firing we’re going to do, and I can assure you there will be no more firings to come. Unless theft or physical violence is involved, of course.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Gardiner said.

“All right, Bob,” McQuade answered, “then you will see it. You’ll see a memo to that effect tomorrow morning, and you’ll see it posted on every floor of this factory. There will be no more firings from now on. Titanic can promise you that.”

“Well, the men certainly appreciate that,” Grant said, relieved.

“But what about this other thing?” Gardiner persisted. “The workers are being treated like—”

“Like kings!” McQuade said. “By comparison, you are being treated like kings. Look at the changes, men, just look at them! Does all this seem to be a slap in the worker’s face? Of course not!” He rose suddenly. “I’ve just now promised you a raise and a secure employment policy. Titanic is now assured that every man in this factory is doing his job and doing it well. There’s no reason to fire anyone now, and you can damn well bet we are not going to. When Titanic makes a promise, it does not break that promise. So compare that with what you had. What was Julien Kahn before Titanic took over? One company among a lot of other fashion shoe houses, a name, a dot on the map. Sixteen hundred employees, more or less, twenty-six hundred pairs a day, so what’s that? What’s twenty-six hundred pairs a day? A drop in the bucket. Here we sit, Julien Kahn, Inc. A flyspeck in the industry. Are our shoes better than Delman’s or I. Miller’s? Maybe, maybe not. Who cares? We’ve got the name, and so we sit back and relax, but what does that name do for you, the worker, the man who put that flyspeck on the map to begin with?

“It does nothing for you, nothing. Who steals your name steals trash, and that is wrong, my friends, that is goddam wrong. And now picture this. Picture a new Julien Kahn, a revitalized Julien Kahn. Picture a Julien Kahn that is leader of the fashion world, the pacesetter, the stylesetter, the industry’s mainspring. A strong Julien Kahn with factories in California, Texas, New York, Paris, you name it, everywhere, anywhere you want to work Julien Kahn can send you there. Florida? All right, you can get to Florida if you work for Julien Kahn. You can get there and live there and be paid for living there while you work. Do you yearn for shrimps creole, well damn it, man, Kahn has a factory in New Orleans, too, because Kahn is king of the industry.

“The new Kahn is a young giant. The new Kahn is an outfit that makes other fashion houses seem obsolete. And then picture the profits, my friends, and picture what those profits will do for you, the worker. Can you see where the petty inefficiencies must go, can you see why the necessary tyrannies are all part of the plan? Bear with us, stick with us, understand that what we are doing we are doing for you, and then you will see, my friends, then, by Christ, you’ll be proud of your company, you’ll hold your head high whenever the name of Julien Kahn is mentioned. The name will be your banner, and the profits will go into your pockets, because labor is power, and power is strength!

“This is what we are trying to do! We are trying to pull Kahn out of the mud! We are trying to pull it out with our bare hands, forge it into something you’ll be proud of, and something that will be a part of you. And so you’re getting new toilets, but are new toilets a part of the big profit? No, only a small part, only a very small part, but don’t they add to your comfort in the meantime? Or do you prefer pigsties, and do you prefer straining your eyes under inadequate lighting, or do you prefer riding in a freight elevator during the morning rush? Is it terrible that we’re installing new elevator banks? Is it terrible to think that the marble entrance of the building will be enlarged to cover practically the entire first floor? Is it bad that you’ll come to work and feel like a human being, and ride in an elevator that’s new and clean, with a man wearing a uniform, or that you’ll work in a factory that’s as spotless as a hospital ward, are any of these things bad? Are they bad, tell me? They’re good, men, they’re goddam good, I’m telling you, and it’s only the beginning, because things are going to get better and better, but only with your help, and only if you can overlook the tyranny of stopping bloodshed in the Cutting Room, or exposing a thief in Packing, only if you can overlook these things which were essential and necessary.”

McQuade lowered his voice. “Titanic is giving you more money. Titanic has promised you that there will be no more firing, that its reduction program has been completed. Titanic will keep these promises, believe me. I can assure you that Titanic does not want to close down or move this factory. Titanic wants to grow, Titanic wants to be strong and healthy.”

For a moment, they were not sure he had finished. Manelli looked at McQuade, and McQuade wiped the sweat from his upper lip.

“Why don’t we all drink to that?” Manelli said.

The men were silent. Manelli took out seven glasses and poured a shot of rye into each glass.

“To a bigger and better, and I mean better, Julien Kahn,” he toasted.

“And to the end of firings and a pay rise in the very near future,” Grant added.

The men tossed off their shots. McQuade took one sip at his drink and then put it down. Gardiner, Hensen, and Karojilian left the office while McQuade, Manelli, Grant, and Sal Valdero sat down to work out the pay raise. The shop stewards were silent until they reached the elevators down the hall.

“I never looked at it that way,” Gardiner said.

“Maybe he’s got something there,” Hensen said. “What the hell, if a man isn’t doing anything, why keep him on? He’s stealing money from our pockets.”

“Sure. Look, we’re getting a raise already, aren’t we?”

“That stuff he said about Florida,” Karojilian said. “That wouldn’t be bad, you know?”

“And he did stop them from killing themselves down there in the Cutting Room. Hell, nobody else lifted a finger to stop them.”

“What the hell did the Kahns ever give us, anyway, except a lot of headaches? These guys have new ideas, and they’re willing to back up their ideas. That’s what counts.”

“New blood, that’s what.”

“Well, that’s what we’re getting. And the ideas sound good, you know? You can get excited about ideas like that.”

“What I like best is the security. He promised no more firings, didn’t he? That’s the ticket, man.”

“You know, he’s not a bad guy. You just have to understand him.”

“I wouldn’t introduce him to my wife,” Karojilian said, laughing.

“Man, he’d crack her in two!”

The three shop stewards stepped into the elevator, laughing. They took the word back to the workers, and the workers thought about it, and some workers were still unhappy even though they’d been promised security and a pay rise, and they began to grumble, and a good many of them were sure the delegate had been paid off to play ball with the company officials, and they said they didn’t go for these long-range plans, and when would they get a raise, and how did they know Titanic was sincere about not firing anyone any more?

But when the memo came around the next morning, the memo promising that there would be no further firings at Julien Kahn, the workers were sure that Titanic was an all-right outfit, and they began to talk about the new progressive system, and they began thinking of this idea of being able to work wherever they wanted to, even though most of them would never have left their native New Jersey or New York anyway.

And they began discussing profits and losses as if they were stockholders in the company, and they began to be careful with the leather and more careful with the shoes, and they began to go to their supervisors whenever they saw someone goofing off, because anyone goofing off was stealing money from their pockets, and they began to take a certain pride in keeping the building clean, and when the toilet on the eighth floor was completed, they all went up to use it, and they enjoyed the clean white urinals and sinks and drying machines, and then they went down to their own floors and compared the filth-encrusted toilets there with the gleaming white one upstairs, and the comparison was like night and day, and they were forced to admit that Titanic looked after its people all right, and wasn’t it a fine damned place to work for?

But the grumblers still grumbled; there was just no appeasing some people. The grumblers said look at how many men were dropped from Lasting and look at how many men were dropped from Heeling, and look at what happened on the ninth floor, people dropped like flies, the whole IBM Room, here today and gone tomorrow, and how do I know I won’t be next? All this in spite of the promise Titanic had made, because some people just wouldn’t accept anything at face value, they were just that distrustful. And the grumblers said they didn’t care if they had to use a rusted tin can for a toilet, so long as they got a big raise, and where was the raise anyway, all this talk about more money and where was it, and who needed Coke machines on every floor, and wasn’t it dandy when we could do time work when our piecework ran out, and since when is it nice to get a hose in the face, and what’s wrong with stealing anyway, the company makes enough profit, doesn’t it, why shouldn’t we swipe a pair of shoes every now and then, the grumblers asked.

And then, miraculously, and much sooner than anyone had expected, as if to show that the grumblers didn’t know what the hell they were talking about anyway, there was an increase in wages. A small increase, five or six mills per operation, but that added up, friend, and this was where the workers lived, this was right in their pocketbooks, and oh, this was grand, oh, this was money from home, screw everything else, this was positively, absolutely, without a doubt a very fine thing. Long live Julien Kahn, they cheered, long live Titanic!

And one worker was even happy enough and bold enough to scribble that on the big red and white and black sign with the silhouette of a Kahn shoe that hung in the new eighth-floor toilet.

Long Live Titanic!

The buyer from Texas was feeling damned good. The buyer from Texas had been wined and dined all week long, and now it was Julien Kahn’s turn to pick up the tab, and he’d seen nothing but wonderful shoes since he’d come to this wonderful town (not to be compared with San Antone), nothing but wonderful legs, he had to hand it to these big fashion houses, they knew how to entertain a man. And it was Julien Kahn’s turn, and he’d just witnessed their showing, and damn if they didn’t have a wonderful fall line, and moderately priced too, new blood was what any setup really needed. The models had been just as pretty as any he’d seen all week long, with that faintly aloof air about them, and with wonderful legs (but not like Texas gals’ legs!), and the shoes had looked damned good on their feet, and, oh, the liquor these Kahn people served was mighty stimulating stuff, mighty stimulating.

He wandered around the suite of rooms with a martini glass in his hand. Everybody was in a nice friendly warm glow of friendly warm happiness, everybody all dressed up and chatting with models now that the showing was over, and everybody ready to fill that old glass of his whenever it got empty, and all these nice shining clean young faces, nice bunch of fellers these Kahn people employed, and nice round little backsides on the models, wouldn’t Louise take a fit if she could see him now, here in New York, surrounded by all this?

Oh, this was going to be a humdinger of a party, better even than the one yesterday had been, had to admit these Kahns had a mighty nice line, lots of business this fall, yessir, with all these snazzy new numbers the industry was turning out, oh, this was going to be a humdinger of a party!

“If you want my advice, Mr. Silverstein,” Murphy said, “I’d put in my order right now. It’s really only common sense when you figure it out. That base sold well for you last fall, and we’ve given it a lot more class in this fall’s line. So it stands to reason you can’t miss with it.”

“It was a good seller,” Silverstein said.

“Don’t take too many, if that’s what’s bothering you. Take thirty pair, split them up fifteen in the blue suede and fifteen in the black. If they go, you can always reorder. But I’d be prepared, Mr. Silverstein, that’s my honest opinion.”

She still felt very dizzy, and Griff’s silence did not help her dizziness at all, not at all. They were in a cab, heading for her house, and he had not said two words since they entered the cab, just pulled himself into this silly, thoughtful silence, wrapped it around him like a black cloak.

“You are silent, thoughtful, sincere, courteous, kind—” she started, and when he did not smile, she cut herself short.

“All right,” she said, “so be that way.”

He did not answer.

“I don’t see what you’re angry about, anyway. A girl has a few drinks, and you act as if…” She glanced sideways at him, and then her mind fled to the city outside the cab window, and she squealed, “Oh, Griff, it’s so pretty out there! All the lights and…” She reached for his hand and squeezed it, and he pulled it back sharply, his mouth opening as if he were going to shout at her.

Well, all right, she thought, all right, I won’t touch you. Okay, okay, I won’t touch you, didn’t know you were so fussy about things like that, anyway, and how did I get in a cab with you, anyway, who asked you to take me home, I was having a good time, wasn’t I?

“I was having a good time,” she said aloud.

“That’s nice,” he said.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, nothing, sure, nothing. You sit there like… like I don’t know what and you say nothing. All right, nothing. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m not going to force you to tell me anything, anything at all. Just sit there, clam. Just sit there and make pearls inside your shell, clam.”

“Oysters make—”

“I know all about oysters,” Marge said angrily, pulling herself to one side of the cab. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

“No,” he said.

“Well, you’re not.” She couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason for her sudden indignation, but she was indignant as all hell, and she imagined it had something to do with Griff’s attitude. After all, she really hadn’t had that much to drink, and besides her head was absolutely clear now — well, almost. “You’re an old…” She sought a word. “I don’t know. You’re just an old.”

“Clam,” Griff supplied.

“Yes. ’Zactly.”

“All right, Marge,” he said.

“All right, Marge. Nice little girl, Marge. Here’s a pat on the head, Marge. Here, Margie, Margie, Margie.” She tried a whistle, as if she were calling a dog, but the whistle came out as an inadequate puff of air. “You know what?” she asked.

“What?”

“You’ve got no sense of humor.”

“Maybe not,” he said.

“Don’t sound so proud. It isn’t good to have no sense of humor. The trouble with everybody today is that they don’t know when they’re happy. They have to be told when they’re happy.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right. Mac said so.”

“Oh. Then it must be right.”

“And you see? He didn’t try anything, anything at all. He was a perfect gentleman, and he got me drinks all night, which is a lot more than you did.”

“That’s true,” Griff said.

“Am I drunk?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, then, I’m drunk, So what?”

“So nothing. I wish I were drunk.”

“You do not. If you wished you were drunk, you’d be drunk.”

“Suppose I wished… well, never mind.”

“Anything you wish, you get. I wished I was a model, and tonight I was a model. You see?”

“I see.”

“You do not. You’re trying to humor me. Only you haven’t got a sense of humor.”

“I’m just a clam. Clams never laugh.”

“No, but they make pearls.”

“Oysters—”

“Don’t talk about clams or oysters, please,” she said. “I don’t think I feel so good.”

“All right.”

“You’re a very accommodating fellow, did you know that? My wish is your command. You’re kind, courteous, sincere—”

“Yes, I know. I’m a gem.”

“Hey, do you know something?”

“What?”

“I think there were a lot of sluts there tonight. What do you think of that?”

“It’s entirely likely,” Griff said.

“Certainly. Even Mac said so. Well, you know, he was talking about one with you, before you shook hands.”

“Yes,” Griff said.

“Was he trying to hurt you?”

“When?”

“When he shook hands with you?”

“No.”

“Oh. I thought he was trying to hurt you.”

“No.”

“I thought he was.” She wet her lips. “I like April.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Don’t you like April?”

“It’s all right, I suppose.”

“I keep forgetting. Clams don’t like anything.”

“Except other clams.”

“How do clams…?” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oops, never mind.”

“The same way oysters do,” he said.

“It must be dull.” She hiccupped. “Excuse me.”

“You’re excused.”

“April is very nice and misty. It always reminds me of sad songs, ‘Yesterday’s Gardenias’ or ‘Blue Rain’ or ‘Serenade in Blue,’ songs like that.”

“You left out the most important one,” Griff said.

“Which?”

“‘I Remember April.’”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes. And ‘Laura.’ That’s an April song, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You feel like growing in April, don’t you? Everything else is growing, and you feel like growing with it, don’t you? Do clams grow?”

“Clams grow.”

“In April?”

“In April.”

“Maybe it isn’t so bad being a clam. In April. I can’t see it during January. Clams must be very lonely in January.”

“Well, it’s a lonely life,” Griff said, “but we try to manage.”

“Are you feeling a little better now?”

“Yes, a little.”

“That’s good. Hey, did Mac hurt you?”

“No.”

“What were you doing then? You looked like two kids trying to… I don’t know. You looked sort of stupid.”

“Did we?”

Marge shrugged. “I could use a cup of coffee, do you know that?”

“We can stop somewhere.”

“No, no, I’ll make some for us when we get home.”

“Your parents…”

“No, I don’t live with my parents. Didn’t you know that? I used to live with a roommate, but she got married. I moved out of my parents’ house when I was twenty-one. I think that’s significant.”

“Is it?”

“Certainly. When you’re twenty-one, you’re on your own. That’s the way I feel. You don’t live with your parents, do you?”

“My parents are dead,” Griff said.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.”

“Oh, Griff, I’m so terribly sorry. Griff, you make me feel like crying.”

“They’ve been dead a long time,” Griff said.

“Griff, please don’t say anything else because I’ll bust out crying, and I don’t want to cry, Griff, please, it’s been such a lovely night.”

“Let’s go back to clams,” he said. “They’re safe.”

“You’re a nice boy, Griff.”

“You’re a nice girl.”

“And I don’t really think you have no sense of humor. And I don’t really think you’re a clam.”

“But I am,” he said. “I thrive on sea vegetation.”

“No, really,” she said, smiling.

“Really. Clams never lie.”

“I think I’m beginning to sober up,” she said.

“Good.”

“But I’d still like a cup of coffee. You’ll come up, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Is it terrible for a girl to get drunk? Whenever I see a drunken woman, I lose all respect for her.”

“No, it’s not so terrible.”

“Did I do anything silly? Like putting a lampshade on my head or anything?”

“No. Unless…” He drew the word out.

“Unless what?”

“Well, that dance you did,” he lied.

“What dance?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“When you took off all your clothes.”

“Griff, I didn’t!” she said horrified.

“You were quite a hit.”

“Griff, no! No, please, I didn’t!” She hesitated uncertainly. In a small voice, she asked, “Did I?”

“No.”

She let out her breath. “Now I am sober. Oh, God, you gave me a scare. You’re a stinker.”

“Where do you want to get out?” the cabbie asked, turning suddenly.

Marge leaned forward. “Oh, are we here already?” She peered through the windshield. “The third house there, on the left,” she said. The cabbie nodded and edged the cab over toward the curb. They got out, and Griff paid the man, and then they started up the steps of the red brick building.

“This is the tail end of Greenwich Village,” Marge said. “Those smelly things on your right are factories.”

“Nice,” Griff said.

“Yes, very pleasant. I work in a factory all day long, and then I come home and look out my window at other factories. I guess it’s really immature, but I like living in the Village.”

“Besides, it’s cheap.”

“No. No, it’s very expensive. The days when an artist could suffer in the Village are dead and gone. All the landlords know the Village is a desirable place now, so you have to pay an arm for a hole in the wall. Well, you’ll see. You know, I’m quite sober now.”

“I’m glad.”

“I am, too. It’s fun being drunk, but it’s better being me.”

She began fishing in her purse as they started up the steps. “I’m on the fourth floor, so conserve your breath.”

“All right.”

“On your left is the apartment of my landlady. She is probably drunk. She always is.”

“Um-huh.”

They climbed steadily. On the third floor, Marge said, “Adjust your oxygen masks.”

“Roger,” Griff answered.

They reached the fourth floor and walked to a door at the end of the corridor. Marge inserted her key and twisted it. Griff threw open the door for her. She bowed and made a grand gesture with one arm, like a courier in the presence of Queen Elizabeth.

“Enter. It isn’t much, but it’s homely.”

She snapped on a light, and they stepped into the small apartment.

“The kitchen,” she said. “Ignore the dishes in the sink, please.”

“They’re ignored.”

“In there, the combination sitting room, living room, bedroom. The john is right there, if you need it.” She took off her coat and hung it in one of the closets. “Your coat, sir.”

Griff began taking off his coat. She saw him fumbling with the buttons.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Let me see your hand,” she said.

“No, it’s all—”

“Let me see it.” She took his hand, and her eyes widened. “He did hurt you! Oh, that dirty bastard.” She looked at the hand more closely. “Griff, it’s all swollen.”

“It’ll go down.”

“Can’t we do something for it? Some hot water? Yes, some hot water and boric acid.”

“I don’t think—”

“Let me help you with the buttons.” She unbuttoned the coat for him, and then pulled it off his shoulders, hanging it in the closet alongside hers, closing the curtains over the closet opening.

“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll put up the coffee and begin treatment. I once wanted to be a nurse, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes. Why’d he want to hurt you, Griff?”

Griff shrugged.

“Did it… Did it have something to do with me?”

“No.”

“It did, didn’t it?”

“No. He was testing his strength, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“He just felt like testing it. He’s a strong man, McQuade. Strong men have to test their strength every now and then, to make sure it’s not weakening.”

“Where… where was he taking me?” Marge asked suddenly.

“I don’t know.”

“I think I have an idea.” She bit her lip. “I must’ve made a little fool of myself, Griff.”

“No, Marge. Honestly, you didn’t. You were high, but that’s all. You had a right to get high.”

“What a fool,” she said.

“No, you weren’t.”

“And you were right about McQuade, weren’t you?”

Griff didn’t answer. She stared at him for a moment and then went to the stove. “I use instant coffee, is that all right?”

“Fine.”

She put up a kettle, and then she filled a second pot with water. She came to the table and sat opposite him. She reached out and touched his swollen hand gently.

“Poor Griff.”

“I’ll live,” he said lightly.

“I know you will,” she said suddenly serious. “You’re a knight in shining armor, aren’t you, Griff? You came to the damsel’s rescue.”

“Well,” he said, “I hadn’t looked at it that way. Truth is, I wanted to take you home.”

“You’re a liar,” she said.

“I’m a clam.”

Marge laughed. “You’re very sweet. I appreciate what you did, Griff. Not that… well…”

“What?”

“Not that I’m anything special. I mean… oh, what the hell, is it so important? Am I any different than any other woman? But just the idea of giving it to McQuade.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Am I embarrassing you?”

“No.”

“I am, I can see that. You’re really a very sweet guy, Griff. I know most men don’t like to be called that, but you really are very sweet, Griff. I can’t begin to tell you how sweet I think you are.” She was surprised to find tears springing to her eyes. She bit her lip and turned her head away. “I’d better get some cups,” she said.

She walked to the cupboard, took down two cups and two saucers, and then came back to the table.

“I haven’t even got any cake in the house.”

“I don’t feel like cake, anyway.”

“Even if you did, you’d say you didn’t. Griff…”

“No, really. I don’t feel like cake.”

“All right.”

“Really.”

She smiled, a sudden tenderness blossoming inside her. “All right,” she said. She took a jar of coffee from the shelf and spooned a teaspoonful into each cup. “Do you take sugar?”

“Yes. One and a half.”

“I like to put it all in beforehand. Once I even bought that powdered cream stuff and put the coffee, the sugar, and the cream in all beforehand. Then when you put the water in, it’s something like magic. That’s silly, isn’t it?”

“No, Marge, I don’t think so.”

She spooned sugar into his cup and then her own. She went back to the stove and put her finger into the open pot of water.

“How hot can you stand it, Griff?”

“Pretty hot.”

“This is very hot. I’ll get some boric acid.” She laughed abruptly. “I just thought of something funny.”

“What?”

“Spooning boric acid into the coffee cups and coffee into your pot of water. It’s not really funny, I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. Maybe I’m still drunk.” She brought the pot of water to the table and set it down before him. The steam rose, clouding his face for a moment. “You look all misty, like April.”

“That looks hot as hell,” he said.

“Wait until you put your hand into it.” She went into the bathroom and returned with a tin of boric acid. “How many spoonsful?”

“Two, three, I don’t know.”

“Three,” she said, measuring the boric acid into the pot. “And one for the pot.”

“What we really need is a basin.”

“I haven’t got a basin. Won’t your hand fit?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Well, go ahead.”

“Give me time.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I feel like a man on a diving board.”

“Come on, Griff. Faint heart… well, that doesn’t apply here.”

He looked up at her curiously for a moment, and her eyes met his, and she felt a strange warmth suffusing her body. “I’ll get the coffee water,” she said. She turned her back and he suddenly yelled, “Ouch!” She whirled abruptly. His hand was in the pot of steaming water.

“How does it feel?”

“Hot.”

“Yes, but otherwise.”

“There’s no otherwise. It only feels hot. Jesus, does it feel hot!”

“It’ll fix you up,” she said.

“Then why are my fingers melting off?”

Marge laughed and then brought the kettle to the table, filling the cups. “Milk,” she said, going to the refrigerator. Griff sat at the table with a pained expression on his face, his hand dangling in the pot of water. “I should put this in a creamer,” she said, “but I haven’t got a creamer. Besides, it’s sacrilege to put milk in a creamer.”

“That’s right. Milk should go in a milker.”

“You’re bright,” she said.

“Yes, I know. I don’t take milk, anyway.”

“Now he tells me. I don’t either.”

“I learned to drink it black in the Army. Where’d you learn?”

“I don’t know, I just learned. I think it was from a boy I used to go with. Yes, he always took his black. He made me feel like an awful sissy, so I started.”

“He was probably from my company,” Griff said.

“No, he was in the Navy.”

“Oh.”

“I forgot his name.” A twinkle came into her eye. “Hornblower, or something like that.”

“Oh, yes, fine fellow.”

“You’re much nicer when you’re not a clam. Drink your coffee.”

He reached for the cup with his left hand. “Funny how you get used to things,” he said. “It feels strange as hell holding a cup in my left hand.”

The aroma of coffee spread around the kitchen. They sat sipping, Griff with one hand in the pot of water, Marge with her legs crossed. The streets outside were silent and deserted. Out on the river, they could hear the hoarse moan of a tug.

“That bastard,” she said suddenly.

“Wh… oh, McQuade.”

“Yes. He shouldn’t have hurt you.” She paused and looked at his face. “Does it bother you, my talking about it? I’m sorry, but I seem to be a clumsy idiot tonight. Does it make you feel… weak?”

“Weak?” His eyes opened in surprise. “McQuade? No, Marge, no, not by a long shot. What happened tonight makes me feel strong, so goddam strong.”

She rose swiftly, putting her cup down on the table and moving behind his chair. She did not know why she suddenly wanted to kiss him, but she knew that she wanted to. She leaned over and brushed her lips across his cheek, suddenly wanting to hold him very close, but she moved back, a little embarrassed by what she’d done.

“I… I’m sorry,” she said.

She stepped back from his chair. He was looking at her curiously, his hand dangling foolishly in the water, the coffee cup in his other hand.

“It’s…” She moved away from him and sat down, not wanting to see his face. “It’s tonight. It’s just a very crazy night. But I… I wanted to kiss you, Griff. I’m sorry…” She shook her head. “My God, I’m behaving as if I’ve, seduced you or something. Griff, what is it? Am I losing my mind?”

He smiled suddenly. “No.”

“But… but just the idea of McQuade hurting you like that… it… made me want to… to kiss you.” She shook her head again. She looked across the table at him, and again she felt this overwhelming desire to hold him close, to press his head to her breasts. She watched him, and she saw the cloud spread over his face as his smile vanished. His brows pulled together, and his eyes were suddenly murky and unfathomable.

“I… I didn’t mean to complicate things, Griff. I’m truly sorry.”

“No,” he said, “it isn’t that. I’m glad you kissed me. I’m very glad, Marge.” He looked up. “Believe me, Marge, I’m glad.”

“Well…”

“But it’s tonight, the way you say. Everything that happened tonight, the whole mixed-up sequence of events. Like… like stumbling through a fog, and suddenly bursting into sunlight. Like that, Marge. And all at once, all of it at once. I made a discovery tonight. No, Marge, come to think of it I made a lot of discoveries, and they aren’t all nice ones, and all of a sudden I’m afraid.”

“Afraid, Griff? Afraid of what?”

“When I followed you and McQuade out of the room, I was a little annoyed that I had to. I didn’t like McQuade, and I didn’t like the idea of having to fend him off, or of protecting you, or of… the whole thing, Marge, the whole damned thing. And then, suddenly, I felt all right doing what I was doing. When McQuade said what he said about you, I wanted to hit him in the mouth, but I—”

“What did he say?”

“That doesn’t matter, Marge. The important thing is that I wanted to hit him; oh, it was a silly idea because he could probably beat me senseless, but I wanted to hit him, anyway. And then he offered me his hand, and there was something inside me that said don’t take that slimy hand, but there was something else that couldn’t turn away a hand offered in friendship. Something… something like decency. When a man offers his hand, you take it. If you’re decent, you take it.

“And then… then McQuade turned the handshake into something else, and I realized that he didn’t have a decent shred in his body. And the discovery led to something else, a… a realization of his full power, and of just how loathsome that power is. And I wanted to do something against the power, but I was helpless. All I could do was take the pain he inflicted without crying out, without saying anything, and that somehow left me with some pride; groveling at his feet I still had a measure of pride.

“But the pride wasn’t enough, Marge. McQuade was the victor, and he’d stamped me right into the ground, and he’d tossed me a girl like a crumb he didn’t want any more, something I didn’t really want, to tell the truth. And then I started to get scared. In the cab I started to get scared. He had stopped himself before he mangled my hand to ribbons, but suppose he hadn’t stopped, suppose he’d gone right on, suppose he’d crushed the hand, and then suppose he’d raped you, or whatever the hell, suppose he’d done all that, what had I done to stop him, what had I done to stop him in the very beginning when he still could have been stopped?

“And his power frightened me. His power was like a huge thing that couldn’t be touched now, before which we’re all helpless. And in my fright, I got selfish. I began to wonder and worry about my job. I’m sure I’ll be fired, Marge, I’m sure as hell he’ll fire me Monday morning, but something inside me told me the job wasn’t the important thing to worry about. McQuade was. McQuade had to be stopped, but I didn’t know how to stop him, so help me I didn’t know how.”

“Griff…”

“And you just now kissed me. In the midst of all my fear and helplessness, you kissed me. Just a peck on the cheek, and all at once it seemed like the most sensible thing in the world for me to have stepped in when McQuade was taking you out of the room. The most sensible thing, and the only thing, and oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, it’s like the kid who sees the freckled girl next door all his life, and suddenly she’s not in pigtails any more, as clichéd as that, Marge, as damned corny as that, but it seemed right somehow, it was the most natural thing in the world for you to kiss me, but… I, don’t know what I’m saying, Marge. What am I trying to say?” He shook his head helplessly.

Her eyes were wet. She was sure that everything she felt was shining there in the wetness of her eyes.

“I don’t know, Griff,” she said. “What are you trying to say?”

“I know what I want to say, Marge, but it’s impossible and I’d feel stupid saying it, because I know it doesn’t happen this way, and yet I feel as if it has happened, and I know it’s happened because I’m not afraid for myself any more, the hell with the job, let the job go, I’m afraid only for what almost happened to you, afraid of what McQuade might have done next, but not to me, to you, Marge, to you, and that’s how I know, even though it’s stupid, even though my common sense tells me it’s stupid, that’s how I know.”

She went around the table to him and she cradled his head in her arms, standing behind his chair, and she said very softly, “What do you know, Griff?”

“That I love you,” he said simply.

They were silent for a moment, as if the enormity of his statement had left them drained and empty. She cupped his head, and his face looked very strong, and his mouth was very firm, and she brought her own mouth down against it tenderly, savoring his mouth, holding his head gently.

“I love you, too, Griff,” she said.

“Marge, you don’t have to—”

“No, Griff, no. Darling, I love you so much. Griff, honestly, I wouldn’t…” She opened her eyes wide, anxious that he should believe her, anxious to tell him she was not simply returning his words. “Griff, please, you must believe me. I love you. Oh, darling, darling, I love you.”

He moved his chair back, and she went onto his lap, her hands idly caressing the back of his neck. She kissed his ear, and she smiled, knowing the smile was a foolish-looking one, but unable to keep it off her face. He held her close, and neither spoke, as if speaking would spoil the moment, as if words had not been invented.

“I feel silly,” he said. “I love you so much, and I sit here with my goddam hand in a pot of water.”

“Leave it there,” she whispered.

“Marge…”

“Griff, I love you.” She kissed his cheeks and his eyes and his mouth. “Griff, darling, do you know I love you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I love the taste of those words. Darling, those words are like honey to me. I want to open the windows and yell it to the streets. I love you, I love you, I love you. Have we known all along, Griff?”

“Maybe. It’s hard to say, Marge. I guess so, yes. Otherwise…”

“Oh, all the time we’ve wasted. Oh, all the time gone down the drain. Griff, please kiss me.”

He kissed her tenderly, his left arm tightening across her back. She pulled away from him gently, her mouth leaving his reluctantly.

“What I said about your being a clam…”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I know.”

“And you have a wonderful sense of humor. I laugh at everything you say, Griff… not everything, I mean not when you’re serious… but whenever you’re being funny in the office… Griff, sometimes I have to turn my face so you won’t see I’m laughing, so you won’t think I’m a silly little… but now I won’t have to turn my face any more, will I? Oh Griff, isn’t that wonderful? Now I can love you, and laugh with you, and Griff, hold me tight, hold me tight, take your hand out of that silly pot of water.”

He held her, and then he said, “My hand is wet. It—”

“I don’t care, darling.”

“Your blouse—”

“Hold me, Griff.”

He held her close, and she felt a oneness she had never felt in her life, a complete happiness that covered her like a warm canopy. The smile blossomed on her face, ripe with her love, ripe with the warmth that spread through her.

“I used to think modeling shoes was the most important thing in the world. I used to think that would be complete happiness. So this afternoon I modeled shoes, and tonight you’re in love with me, and you haven’t even mentioned my legs or looked at them once, and I don’t give a damn. I’m so happy I could burst wide open. I’m so happy, I could—”

“Your legs are wonderful,” he said.

“Don’t say that, Griff. McQuade used those words. He—”

“They are wonderful. McQuade is a bastard, but he was right.”

“It sounds different when you say it, anyway.”

“Marge?”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

“Mmmm.” She buried her head in his shoulder. “I’m giddy and silly, darling. I feel as if I’m being born. Do you feel that way?”

“Yes.”

“Does your hand hurt?” she asked suddenly, sitting up.

“I haven’t even thought about it.”

“Put it back in the water.”

“No.”

“Griff! Now you put—”

“I want to hold you.”

She smiled contentedly. “All right. The hell with your hand. Oh, Griff, I didn’t mean that! I meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

He kissed her again, a long, tender kiss.

“Griff, are you worried about your job?”

“A little.”

“Will it mean much to you, if you’re fired?”

“I like the job, Marge. It’s part of me.”

“I know.”

“You’re a part of me, too. You’ve already become a part of me. I can sit here and talk to you about the job, and I feel as if somebody else in the world cares, do you know? As if I’m not alone any more. It’s a good feeling, Marge.”

“Oh, why did we waste so much time, why, why?”

“Things have to grow, Marge. It’s better this way. Now I’ve got you, and…”

“And I’ve got you, and just let anyone—” She sat up abruptly. She pursed her lips together. “What’s between you and Cara?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“You have green eyes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. They’re the greenest green I’ve ever—”

“About Cara, I mean.”

“Nothing.”

“Did you ever take her out?”

“Once.”

“And you never asked me! I could hate you, Griff, only I love you so much.”

“We’ve got a lot of time, Marge,” he said softly.

“I know. I feel secure, Griff. I feel so safe in your arms.”

“You’re nice to hold.”

“I love you,” she said. She pecked his cheek. “I love you.” She pecked the tip of his nose. “I love you.”

“You know,” he said, “your message is beginning to reach me.”

She burst out laughing, and then she hugged herself to him, smiling happily, holding him very close and thinking, “I love you, I love you,” but not saying it again, saying it only in her heart, saying it only where it really counted.

Titanic is for the workers, McQuade had said (hastily adding, Ah, but only if the workers are for Titanic). And to add conviction to his statement, to show that Titanic meant what it said, he had promised the workers a raise, and he had promised them there would be no further firings in the factory.

He had given them the raise, and the workers were delighted with it. But there were still people who cocked an anxious ear toward the foreman’s cage whenever the telephone rang, people who were certain more heads would roll, people who were just waiting for Titanic to back down on its word.

McQuade undoubtedly knew of these people. He also knew that Raymond Griffin was not a mere file clerk whose disappearance would go unnoticed. The factory knew Raymond Griffin and, worse, the factory liked him. If Raymond Griffin were fired, the factory would damn well learn about it, and what would happen was anyone’s guess. And despite anything McQuade had said about moving the plant to Georgia or closing it down completely, there was a goodly chunk of cold cash invested in Julien Kahn, Inc., and — as John Grant had so ably pointed out — nobody, not even Titanic, buys factories to close them down. The Kahn factory was a closed shop and whereas Griff, as a part of Management, was not a union member, McQuade had heard of protest strikes, and the firing of Griffin might very well provoke something of that sort, especially after Titanic’s promises. Titanic was for the workers, but only if the workers were for Titanic, and McQuade — no matter how you sliced it — worked for Titanic. A protest strike would not look very good down South. A protest strike might, in fact, look pretty damn crumby. But there still remained this rusty, protesting cog named Raymond Griffin in an otherwise well-oiled machine.

McQuade was a good mechanic, and a handy man with an oil can.

It was hot for May.

The heat attacked the city with a fierce July intensity. Girls in low-cut cotton frocks magically appeared on the streets; men’s bulky tweeds were exchanged for shantungs and linens and seersuckers; and the sun seekers crowded the sauerkraut pots of itinerant hot-dog carts. The city, under sudden siege, sucked in its fetid breath and people talked of a hot summer coming and began to drink Tom Collinses and Gin and Tonics.

Cara Knowles had never liked the heat. The heat and she were natural enemies. From the age of four, she had been whisked away to expensive camps in upper New York and Connecticut, safely away from the muggy, clinging oppressiveness of the sweltering city.

She had gone to camp every year until she was fifteen. When she was sixteen, she experienced her first pang of conscience. She tallied up one day the staggering amount of money her father had spent over the years to keep her cool. Her feeling of guilt was strong, but unconquerable beneath that was the memory of what a summer in the city was like. She struggled with the idea of staying home that summer, but on July 2, along with a passel of squealing brats and harried, hurried counselors, she once more boarded the northbound train in Grand Central Station. But this time there was a difference. This time she went as a junior counselor, an apprenticeship which cut her usual camping fees in half. Her father was pleased, and her mother was, also. Their little Cara was growing up; their little Cara was assuming the responsibilities of womanhood.

And, indeed, their little Cara was growing up. She had been a pale, thin, awkward fifteen-year-old the season before, her dark hair wild and unruly, her chest as flat as any boy’s, her legs spindly, her eyes wide staring brown saucers in her narrow face. As she approached sixteen, she suddenly ripened. For some inexplicable reason (she ate no more than usual!) she began to put on weight. Her arms rounded, and her legs matured, the thigh growing firmer to taper down to a well-rounded knee and a shapely calf and ankle. The flat monotony of her breast suddenly puckered, and then sloped gently, and then burst with womanhood so that even the good Dr. Knowles was slightly embarrassed when he inadvertently barged in one day on his newly buxom daughter struggling into a sheer nylon brassiere.

Her hair, uncontrollable until now, took on a new gloss, a shiny-dull blue black which she combed into the popular page-boy of the day. Her skin, pimply with adolescence, shed its scales, emerged clear and pristine, outdone only by the shining white line of her teeth, teeth which had received loving attention over the years under the hands of her father.

Secure in the padded comfort of her new body, content with her oval face and bright brown eyes, thrilled with the new gleam of her hair and the new thrust of her breasts, Cara Knowles arrived at Taka-Manna.

The sudden attention she received was a bit overwhelming. Last year the senior boys had studiously avoided her, dancing with her only when a counselor forced the task upon them. Their inattention had not disturbed her, mainly because she was thoroughly uninterested in boys and their peculiarly boisterous ways. For, coupled with the child’s body she had worn that season was a child’s mind, content to ogle butterflies in the Nature Shack, happy to engage in Ping-pong with an equally childish girl friend while her more enterprising bunkmates cast amateurishly inadequate glances at the senior boys.

This season, aware of her newly found charms, she had expected some measure of attention from the male j.c.’s. She had not expected attention from full-fledged counselors, most of whom were college boys, and some of whom had already seen service in the war! The attention she did receive was flattering and bewildering, but most of all ecstatically enjoyable.

When Cara’s brassiere was stolen from her trunk and was found fluttering from the flagpole the next morning, she laughed delightedly. When she won the camp’s beauty contest, exhibiting her charms against the bathing-suited glamour of older, wiser girls, she bore her queenship with royal grace and virginal humbleness. When men — well, yes, couldn’t these college boys be called men? — rushed to do her bidding at a barbecue or a dance, she was excitedly thrilled with a new strange sense of power, but she hid her ecstasy behind a pertly smiling, teasing face.

There was a barn adjoining the camp property.

The barn boasted stacks and stacks of hay, and Cara visited that barn often during that hectic summer at Taka-Manna. The hay was softer than any feather bed, filled with a succulent aroma she could almost taste, exciting by its very nature. She was kissed for the first time in that barn, and she decided she liked being kissed. She could not remember later who first put his lips on her own. She only remembered, with a warm sort of laziness, that it had been very pleasant and unlike the later kisses she received. The first kiss had been misty with innocence, a delicately fragile thing which would have shattered under the pressure of fiery lips. She had not known how to kiss then, but she learned during that summer, and the subsequent kisses were more expert but never like that first one had been.

She learned that lips were mobile things, and she learned about the soft inner cushion of those lips, and she learned the secret of a slightly parted mouth. She learned remarkably well, and, considering the fact that her education was all at the hands of male tutors, it was something of a miracle that she did not learn more than she’d bargained for.

She left Taka-Manna amid a welter of crushed hearts. She did not go back to camp again.

The next summer, fresh out of high school, aglow with the idea of college in the fall, aglow with the idea of wanting to help her father pay her way, an idea which had been born and nurtured the summer before, she took a job as a waitress in a Borscht Belt mountain resort.

Rainbow Hill was a dump.

For Cara Knowles, it was exciting and gay. The hennaed women rocking their chairs on the pine-shaded front porch, the shouts and cries from the swimming pool, the horses trotting off into the mountains, the cool nights with crisp stars overhead, the crystal clear days, the sudden thunderstorms ripping themselves from the jagged mountain ridges, bristling with electric fury, the dancing in the casino, the hikes, the stolen kisses, the given kisses, the kisses begged for and the kisses poutingly offered, and the kisses wholeheartedly delivered, the kisses…

The touch of a hand on her full breast.

A tentative inquisitive touch, the warmth of spread fingers, the sudden anger, and then a questioning of the anger, a secret hidden questioning, unspoken, sharp and searching, why am I angry? All at once the unbidden stiffening of her nipples, as if a cold wind had passed over her breast, and then a strange awareness, and the fingers gently caressing, the pressure on her breast warm and wonderfully soothing, and then a quiet, pleased, unashamed, warm, contented, lazy withdrawal, a small feminine shaking of her dark head and a whispered “No, please don’t,” but a slight smile on her full lips, her eyes alight with a new discovery, dancing and mischievously knowing in the darkness, and the beginning of a greater awareness.

The awareness did not reach full flower that summer. Oh, there were numerous attempts to complete the education of Cara Knowles, but Cara was not ready for her degree. The attempts started with Bud, the boy who had first touched her. But when he tried to initiate her into the more complex and universally secret society of the enlightened, he was greeted with a frosty, horrified refusal. The attempts came hard and fast after that. The bus boys, the boys in the band, the kitchen help, the guests, all tried their hand, but Cara refused to become enlightened.

She was not afraid, and she did not think of herself as being particularly moral.

She simply was not ready.

She did not become ready until her junior year at the University of Wisconsin. She became ready on a starlit April night in the back seat of an automobile owned by a senior named David Brooks. She became suddenly and uncontrollably ready, and Brooks was somewhat amazed if delighted by the fiery passion of the woman who had suddenly sprung to life under his caresses.

Curiously, she was not in love with Brooks, nor was her heart broken when he was graduated that June. After that first time in his car she had remained casually aloof, treating him with cold disdain.

Cara left Wisconsin in the first semester of her senior year. She told herself she was fed up with the useless senility of a Liberal Arts education. Actually, she was bewildered by the rapidity with which she made her body available to other boys after her first sortie with Brooks. She was bewildered and dismayed, because her lovemaking was a strangely loveless thing which gave her little satisfaction. She was plagued, too, with a gnawing knowledge that time was hurriedly passing and she was no longer a starry-eyed adolescent. Other girls were already married or engaged, other girls had been in love. Seeking love desperately, not knowing why, she used her body as a divining rod, cutting each affair short in its infancy, unwilling to settle for a tiny burst of pleasure when the full glory of a real love might be lurking right around the corner.

She arrived home for the Thanksgiving holidays and casually announced she was not returning to school, much to her parents’ bewildered dismay. She moped around the house until January, doing a lot of reading. She read books about women mostly, Gone with the Wind and Forever Amber and Saratoga Trunk and Rebecca and Wuthering Heights. She was a rapid reader, but the books did not tell her what she wanted to know, and in truth she really didn’t know what she wanted to know. In January, she enrolled at a secretarial school. Cara was a smart girl and the rigors of the stenographic course were duck soup to her. When she completed the course, the school placed her with an architectural firm.

She met a young architect named Fred Ransom there. For a while, she thought she was in love with Ransom. He was a big man with fiery red hair and sparkling blue eyes, an impudent smile on his mouth. He owned a tastefully furnished apartment in Tudor City, and she spent a weekend with him in that air-conditioned fortress, telling her parents she was spending the time with an old college chum in Pennsylvania. She discovered she was not in love with the young architect. She grew bored with his red hair and blue eyes, annoyed by his impudent smile and callow face, and then frantic to the point of tears by his curiously detached way of toying with her breasts.

She left him on Sunday afternoon. There was a deep sadness within her, and when she went home she took a cleansing hot shower, the water scalding and purifying. She tried to read a little then, wondering what was becoming of her, wondering what was happening to her, answering stupid questions from her mother about whether or not her girl friend had been happy to see her, and whether or not she had met any nice boys on the trip.

She was well aware of her parents’ anxieties concerning her state of spinsterhood. Sometimes, in her impotent fury, she wanted to unleash the whole sequence of her amours on her unsuspecting mother, but she knew the knowledge would kill her, and she still held a somewhat grudging respect for the symbol of purity her mother represented.

She quit the architectural firm the next week.

She took a job at Macy’s as secretary to the stationery buyer. The stationery buyer was a married man, but he intrigued her until the revulsion of what she was doing struck her. She pulled out of the romance and out of Macy’s, taking a job with a law outfit, and then a job with an importer-exporter, the pattern always repeating itself, pattern upon pattern, as endless as her search. And always the patiently entreating eyes of her mother, wondering if her daughter would die a dried-up virgin. The notion would have been amusing, were it not for the harsh kernel of truth beneath it. The will-o’-the wisp Cara chased was not even a real thing in her own mind. She had no preconceived notion of what her man would look like. And in her desperate search for him, she remained a mental virgin, outraged by the liberties her body took. She sometimes stared at herself in the full-length mirror of her closet door, stared at her naked body, the globes of her breasts, the flatness of her abdomen. Even naked, she looked virginal, darkly secretive, wide-eyed in innocence. The contradiction of her physical appearance was sadly amusing. She knew that everyone on the Grand Concourse considered her a “good girl,” but she wondered how long it would take for her cloak of respectability to wear shabby and thin. The idea frightened her a little.

When she took the job with Julien Kahn, Inc., she took it with a new, steadfast determination. There would be no affair this time. This time, this time…

Her brief excursion with Raymond Griffin was something of an experiment with her. The other men she had known, though widely divergent in physical characteristics, had all possessed an almost animalistic power which glowed like a consuming fire in their eyes.

Griff was not like that at all. There was a quietness about him, an almost shy nature. He was a good-looking man in a quiet way, with a nice smile and a vacillatingly serious and jovial personality. He had not, upon first sight, stirred anything but curiosity in her well-curved bosom. But he had appealed to her. She was devout in her determination to throw off the pattern, and Griff had presented himself to her, and he had taken a place alongside her mother as another symbol of purity. And besides, his proposal had really been quite the cutest she’d ever received. She’d gone out with him.

She had been honestly dismayed by the crowded dance floor that night. Up to now, her body had been her sounding board, but in the new scheme of things, she tried to divorce herself from her body completely, and the crowded dance floor was a slap in the face to her plans. She had pulled away from him hastily, embarrassed by her mixed emotions, more embarrassed when she’d seen his embarrassment. Nor was the evening what she had expected. She was trying to fall in love, really in love, and she was discovering how difficult it was to fabricate emotion. They began drinking, and as she drank she became increasingly aware of the futility of the evening, of the futility of her determination, of the futility of her whole life. And as the alcohol spread to her blood, she suddenly wanted Griff to desire her as other men had desired her, knowing her body was winning out over her mind, but not caring very much any more, hating her body, and hating herself. They danced again, and she could tell he wanted her, and she was pleased with his response until the revulsion came over her again, revulsion at his embarrassment and at her own weakness. She had pulled away from him guiltily, again wondering where it would all end for Cara Knowles, puzzled by the dark road she traveled.

The night had been a dismal failure.

When he left her, she could not sleep. She told herself she had not given him an honest chance, and she decided to try again with him, if only he would ask her out again. So she’d been pleased when he turned up at the Guild Week party, even though he’d seemed very interested in the blonde on McQuade’s arm. When Griff took the blonde home, Cara had been strangely hurt, hurt perhaps for the first time in her life. She began drinking. It was easy to drink at the Guild Week party. There was a man there, and she drifted toward him and was not surprised when he took her home that night.

Jefferson McQuade was bigger but no more frighteningly animalistic than other men she had known. The only frightening thing about McQuade was the inner knowledge of what would eventually happen with him, and the knowledge of what would follow that. She had found a strange contentment in the rut of Julien Kahn, Inc. She did not know if she wanted to leave that rut. But she knew what would happen with McQuade, she was very familiar with the pattern of her life, too familiar with it.

She sat by the window of her bedroom that evening in a half slip and brassiere, reluctant to get into her dress. The heat mushroomed against her window like the recussion blast of an atomic bomb. She breathed with her mouth open, trying to suck in a semblance of air from the hot breath that fumed back at her.

It was no use. Heat and Cara Knowles would never be on more than nodding terms.

She rose abruptly and went into the bathroom. She washed her face and patted it dry, and then she touched a dab of cologne to her elbows and the backs of her ear lobes, and the hollow of her throat where the beauty spot crouched minutely.

From the bathroom, she called, “Time, anyone?”

“Seven forty-five,” her father answered.

“Thank you,” she chimed.

She left the bathroom, went back into her bedroom, and took a white cotton frock from its hanger. She didn’t know what McQuade had in mind for that evening, but she would definitely turn thumbs down on dancing. She carried the frock back to the bathroom, running into Dr. Knowles in the hallway.

“Oops!” the doctor said, turning, and she hastily held up the frock to cover the jutting cones of her brassiere, smiling at his embarrassment, immensely pleased. He was such a little boy, her father.

She put the dress on, and then smoothed it over her hips, wondering if she should wear a belt with it. The small patent leather, perhaps. No, the hell with it. She took the bobbies from her hair and then brushed it out, noticing the effect of its blue-black coloration against the whiteness of the dress. The dress had a yoke neck, and the brown beauty spot showed in the hollow of her throat. Beneath that, her breasts rose, straining against the high uplift of her brassiere, firm white mounds crowding the thin shadowed line between them.

She took her lipstick tube from her purse and then touched her brush to the crimson tip, moving the brush to her lips, carrying it a little beyond the edges of her lip line to increase the size of her mouth. She put the lipstick away and touched her lashes with mascara lightly. She took a last appraising look in the mirror and then went back into the bedroom, barefoot. From her top dresser drawer, she took a pair of nylon peds, slipping into them quickly. She found the Julien Kahn white linen pumps in her shoe bag, put them on, took another look at herself in the full-length mirror behind her closet door, sucked in her breath, and then went to sit by the window, waiting for McQuade.

He arrived at eight on the button. Mrs. Knowles came back to tell Cara her friend had come and Cara, fully dressed and waiting for five minutes, said, “Tell him I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

Her mother, used to Cara, said nothing, but she secretly, told herself that such tactics were the best insurance you could buy against marriage, and then went to tell McQuade to make himself comfortable.

Morosely, Cara sat by the window, wishing wistfully, and a little sadly, that her escort for tonight were Griff rather than McQuade. Griff was a good guy.

The good guys and the, bad guys. The clichéd television concept caused her to smile. The meek shall inherit… what?

What had Griff inherited? He was a good guy, a nice guy. He’d taken her out, and he’d been embarrassed when she’d pressed her body against his, embarrassed even though he’d flared into excitement for a moment. He was a good guy, and he’d got nothing.

David Brooks, the first. He was really David Brooks III, but in her mind he would always be the first, and with wry amusement she realized she could no longer even remember his face, and the realization was painful. Had Brooks been a good guy? She dimly remembered him bragging about the sweet young freshman co-eds who had dropped their lacy lingerie and their honor at the sight of his virile form. Not a good guy, not a good guy at all, David. Why had she chosen him for the first? Does anyone ever choose anything, really? Things have a way of happening. Things happen when you’re ready for them.

And all the rest? Good guys? None like Griff, and the knowledge was at once exasperating and terribly saddening. She cared not a whit for Griff, really, but there was something somehow unjust about the fact that she had given him nothing, and the others she’d cared even less about got everything. If he had been in the room with her that moment, she would have recklessly seduced him, thrown all of her womanly wiles at him, done for him what she had never done, really given herself, sweetly, warmly, and only because he was good and down deep she knew she herself was rotten.

Not really rotten, Cara, she told herself. But a little moldy in spots.

Reluctantly she went out to greet McQuade.

From the instant she saw his eyes, she knew it would happen that night. The eyes she saw were the eyes of an old friend. She had learned those eyes well. They filled her neither with excitement nor dread. The eyes of an old friend never do.

“You look lovely,” he said, his voice more Southern than usual.

“Thank you,” she said lightly. He was a big man, McQuade, dressed now in a blue tropical suit, the solidity of the color making him appear larger. His blond hair was efficiently, economically combed. There was a smile on his face, and above the smile the gray eyes were ignited with the smoldering inner fire she knew so well.

“Are we ready?” he asked editorially.

“We are,” she said.

“Dancing?”

“Heavens, no. We’d melt.”

“Theater?”

“If you like.”

“Not really. I thought…” He smiled in embarrassment and then shrugged boyishly, contradicting the glow in his eyes. “Well, it’s a silly idea.”

His trick did not fool her. “What?” she asked.

“A drive to Jones Beach,” he said in a rush. “It’s such a hot night, Cara, but wonderful really, more stars than I’ve ever seen in my life. I thought… do you like the beach?”

For a moment, she wanted to shout No, not the beach. Dancing or the theater, someplace crowded, someplace where there are people, people. The rebellion died.

“It sounds good,” she said dully.

“Fine. Then let’s go.”

They said good night to her parents. Dr. Knowles shook hands with McQuade, his liking for the fellow all over his round dentist’s face.

They make a handsome couple together, he was thinking, a mighty handsome couple.

They drove out over the Whitestone Bridge. McQuade kept the top of his convertible down, and she could see the stars expanding overhead, a great litter of sparkling gems on black velvet. She rode with her head back on the leather seat, the wind blowing her hair free. She could see the other cars whisking past, cars full of Saturday-night daters, young girls, happy girls and girls like… like herself.

But none so discreet, Cara. You are so discreet.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing,” she said.

Nothing. The sum total of my life. Nothing.

“I should have offered a penny,” he said, smiling. He took one hand from the wheel and found her hand, squeezing it.

They drove onto the Belt Parkway, flushed with amber lights, the tires humming secretly under the weight of the car. McQuade kept the radio going, the music mingling with the rush of the wind, carried away behind on the concrete, dropped onto Grand Central Parkway, and then Southern State. They did not talk much.

She began to think about patterns. The pattern of her life, primarily, and the pattern of good and bad, and then the pattern of the trees bordering the winding road, and then the pattern of the stars and the sky and growing things. She saw the large sign announcing JONES BEACH STATE PARK, and for a moment she was transported back to that sixteen-year-old summer at Taka-Manna, and the glistening white sands on the shore of the quiet lake, and the kisses in the barn, and her first kiss, who, who?

They drove past Jones Beach, and past Tobay, far out to a lonely spot of sand covered with patches of driftwood, the sandgrass tall and wavering. The surf thundered against the beach, receded drunkenly to gather its strength and then rolled forth again in majestic, bursting, bubbling white froth. There was a cool wind, and the wind lifted her skirts as they went out onto the sand, McQuade carrying a blanket he’d taken from the trunk of the convertible. She lifted one foot to remove her shoe, and the wind caught her skirt and swept it up over her thighs, and she could feel his eyes hot on her legs, but she was neither frightened nor apprehensive and she did not move to flatten her skirt. She waited until the sea wind momentarily died, and then she took off the shoes and the peds, and she walked barefooted to where the surf angrily lashed the beach.

McQuade spread the blanket, but she did not go to it immediately. There was time. Unafraid, resigned, she knew there was time.

She stood at the edge of the beach where the sand was wet and cold, where the last rush of the waves caught at her toes and then tried to suck her back into the vastness of the ocean. The wind was strong in her hair and in her skirt. She felt it rushing against her face and her naked legs, rushing with a curious sense of inevitability. She did not want what was coming, but she knew she would not resist it. She felt rather young, and rather alone, and rather innocent, standing there on the edge of the world, the kiss of salt on her mouth. Very, very young all at once, all at once and with a sudden poignancy, as young as the girl who’d once admired the spread wings of a yellow butterfly in a Nature Shack so long ago.

She felt like crying.

McQuade padded up to her softly and-stood beside her. He did not touch her, but she felt his presence as if he had already invaded her. Curiously, a chill ran up her spine.

“Something powerful about it, isn’t there?” he said, looking out over the ocean, his voice a whisper.

“Sad,” she murmured. “Something sad.”

“There’s nothing sad about power,” he said flatly.

They stood silently, watching the ocean. He had still not touched her, but still she felt him there, immense behind her.

“We used to go down to Savannah sometimes,” he said idly, a trace of wistfulness in his voice. “I didn’t get to see the ocean except when we got down to Savannah. Where I lived, there wasn’t any ocean.”

“What was there?” she asked, not really interested, making conversation only because she wanted to hold off the inevitable for a while.

McQuade snorted. “Dirt,” he said. He said the word harshly, and then he stopped, and she assumed he was finished until the next bitter flow of words came from his mouth. “There are places in Georgia,” he said, “that aren’t fit for pigs. I was born in one of those places. I was raised in one of those places. Oh yes, my father was a wonderful man.” He laughed a short sardonic laugh. “A wonderful man who had two weaknesses: expensive liquor and cheap nigra women. He couldn’t afford the liquor, but the nigras were a dime a dozen.” He stopped abruptly, as if to clear away a bad memory, and then said, “Come on, let’s go to the blanket.”

“No,” she answered. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to. Yet.”

He stepped out from behind her and his eyes caught hers. A knowing smile flicked across his mouth, as if he too had recognized her resignation to the inevitable and was quietly amused by it. The smile did not amuse her. It sent a new chill rocketing up her back.

“Whatever you say, of course,” he assured her.

“Were you… were you poor?” she asked, attempting to get him back to talking about himself again, stalling for time now, and not knowing why she was stalling.

“Poor?” He seemed to weigh the word carefully. “Do you mean did I have enough to eat?”

“Welt, I don’t know what I exactly…”

“There was always enough to eat,” McQuade said. “My mother saw to that. We lived in a shack, you understand.” He saw the look on her face. “Does that surprise you? Yes, we lived in a shack, and I use the word advisedly. When I say ‘shack,’ I don’t say it the way Texans do, to indicate a forty-room château someplace. When I say ‘shack,’ I mean wood and tarpaper and broken windows and noisy beds, and a stinking outhouse in the back yard. Shack. And shack is synonomous with dirt.”

“I had no idea…”

“But I was never poor, understand that, too. Inside, I was never poor. My mother saw to it that I was well fed, and even though I ran around in torn, outgrown pants with my behind sticking out, I was never poor. Even though I cursed my father for his laziness and for his nigra women and for what he was doing to my mother, I was never poor. Inside I was rich because I knew that some day I was going to be somebody. Some day, I was going to wipe the mud off my face. Poor? No, I was never poor. Only weaklings are poor. Weaklings and cowards.”

Cara smiled. “And you are certainly neither a weakling or a coward.”

“If you’re laughing at me,” he said tightly, “don’t.”

“I’m not laughing,” she said, somehow frightened by the tone of his voice.

“Too many people laughed at me back home. Because of my damn no-good father, and because I was white trash, Jefferson McQuade, the piss-poor kid with the nigra-lover father and the high-and-mighty name.” He paused. “I made them stop laughing. I couldn’t do it with my head so I, did it with my body. Do you know what shoved me through high school and into the University of Georgia?”

“What?” she said.

“Football, naturally. My body again. That’s when I became an equal. I wasn’t white trash on the ball field. I was strength, and people admire strength. Nobody noticed that I got out of Georgia U. cum laude. They only noticed that I was a football hero. Muscle. Sheer muscle. Six fraternities wanted me, do you know that? Six God-damned fraternities. And only because I was eight feet tall and because I slaughtered the opposition on the ball field. Once I had that ball tucked under my arm, there was no stopping me. Nothing could stop me. They could have thrown up the Maginot Line, and it wouldn’t have stopped me. So six fraternities wanted Steamroller McQuade; but McQuade told them all to go to hell. Six fraternities wanted the boy who hadn’t owned a pair of undershorts until he was fifteen years old.”

Cara laughed spontaneously, and then cut herself short when she felt McQuade’s silence. His silence was huge and terrible. It mushroomed about her like a darkly wrathful thing.

“Fraternities,” he said bitterly. “Kid stuff! I was a hundred years old when I was ten! Every time I heard those bedsprings creaking in the next room, everytime I smelled a nigra woman in the house, I got older and older, and older! What did the dear brothers know about lying in the fields with the sun hot overhead, and looking down at the dirt and filth, and hungering to get out of it, hungering until your belly ached, knowing you had to get out. I was the lanky bastard from the shack, I was the big lout in the too-small clothes, I was the town’s laughing boy, the kid whose father lay with nigras. And now they were crawling to me! On their hands and knees, they came to me, and they begged me to join their little-boy clubs, and I told them to go to hell, and this time I was laughing.” He paused, reflecting. “Have you ever heard the laughter of a small town, Cara?”

“No,” she said, listening to his voice. The man speaking no longer sounded like the McQuade she knew. The speech was more Southern somehow, more sharply accented. There was no polish to this speech, and no politeness. She had accepted the other McQuade, and now there was a new man to contend with, and this new man frightened her.

“I very rarely laugh,” he said. “Laughter is an ugly sound. Laughter was reserved for use against the McQuades in my town. But one McQuade made them stop laughing. One McQuade stood up, and they saw that he was strong, and they were afraid, and so they stopped laughing. They used to laugh at Titanic, too, you know — but they don’t any more. They don’t laugh at Titanic, and they don’t laugh at me. Now they’re on their hands and knees to me, and now I take what I want, and when I’ve got it, I own it! I own it completely, it’s mine.” He laughed suddenly. “Do you know how I got to be a major in the army?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and she did not want to know.

“By killing more people than anybody else. By cracking skulls. I was Steamroller McQuade again, only this time we weren’t playing a game. I killed more goddam men…” He stopped. “Do you want the secret, Cara? Would you like to know the secret of success? I’ll tell you. Smile. Smile — and crack skulls. Crack them, but smile while you’re doing it. I learned how to smile when I was a boy, I had to know how to smile. I didn’t learn the other half of the secret until my body began to catch up with me. But now I know. And nobody stops me. Nobody.” He paused, and was silent for a long time. His hand came up then, and she felt his fingers touch the back of her neck.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Cara,” he whispered. His voice carried none of its previous anger now. It was a tender caress, but despite its gentleness, it filled her with dread. She was suddenly frightened. She did not want this man. She was afraid of this man and of what he would do to her.

“Am… am I?” she said, and she hoped her voice had not trembled.

His arms were around her suddenly, swiftly, roughly. They closed like the steel jaws of a trap, and she felt the fierceness of his lips on her throat, smothering the small beauty spot, and then his mouth found hers, and he drank from it wildly, twisting his head and his lips.

She thought only of escape. She had to get away from him, had to get away before he possessed her, had to get away before Cara Knowles vanished, before Cara Knowles became nothing, nothing. She twisted away from him and he yanked her back, and then he was lifting her, lifting her, and she felt the cold wind on her legs, felt the sinewy strength of his arms, felt the jostle of each long step he took toward the blanket.

She began to struggle. She felt as if she were being sucked into a deep black whirlpool, and she knew that if she succumbed to this man it would be the end for her. This was the end of the road: Jefferson McQuade. She sensed this with the violent purity of sudden truth, and so she struggled when he threw her harshly onto the sandy blanket, struggled against the big hands pinning her shoulders, struggled against the immense figure towering above her.

The pattern, she thought wildly, the familiar pattern, but this time there was a quietly shrieking terror behind it. He must not have me! The pattern of water rushing against sand, a sky wheeling overhead, I’m frightened, good Lord I’m frightened, good Lord help me, the roughness of the blanket, the harsh uneven breathing of the man above her, stop, stop, please stop, the ragged breath merging with the roar of the surf until they were one, crashing against the lonely spit of sand, the stars pinwheeling overhead, the wind on her legs, and on her naked thighs, a cold cold, wind, naked, naked, please, please, the wind rushing up to embrace her, and his fingers following the wind, strong demanding fingers, cold fingers of fire, and the violation of her breasts, and the violation of her mouth, his hand forcing her lips open, helpless in the grip of his hands and the grip of his body, pain darting into her face where his fingers clenched her tightly, pain, pain and the knowledge that this was the end for her, that this was the final and complete act from which there was no turning, fighting it, fighting as he forced her legs, forced her mouth, and then weary at last, and sad, so tired, so tiredly parting her lips and drawing him into her with her kisses, and knowing, knowing that under the hands of Jefferson McQuade she would at last know utter and absolute degradation.

McQuade was not smiling.

Manelli was smiling, but McQuade was not. McQuade looked as if he had never smiled in his life. Griff sat in the easy chair and watched both men. The office was very hot, and a large electric fan in the corner did not reduce the heat; it only rearranged it. He could see the droplets of sweat on Manelli’s nose, and above that the round circles of his eyeglasses, and below that the small circle of his mouth, opening, opening.

“Mac’s had an interesting idea,” the mouth was saying.

Griff said nothing.

Manelli shrugged, as if the idea were simply too fantastic, something unheard of. “He thinks we can do without a Cost Department.”

The sound of the electric fan was suddenly very loud, and the room seemed hotter all at once. Griff looked at Manelli, and then at McQuade. McQuade raised his head, but his eyes were hooded with a thin layer of ice, and when he spoke he did not address Griff. He spoke to the wall behind Griff.

“I don’t know how familiar you are with the Titanic Shoe setup, Griff,” he said.

He calls me Griff. The son of a bitch hates me, and he has the gall to call me Griff, the way my friends do.

“Not very,” he replied.

“No, I didn’t think you were,” McQuade said. He cleared his throat. “We’ve found, over the years, that once an average cost has been established for a pair of shoes, that cost — with slight variations — can serve as the basis of our operation thereafter.”

“I don’t understand,” Griff said.

McQuade flicked sweat from his brow. He moved majestically, almost as if he first shoved back his crown before performing the simple earthy task of pushing the sweat away.

“It’s really quite simple,” he said. “Let us assume the average cost of a pair of shoes has been calculated to be… oh, four dollars. Using that average cost as our basis, Titanic can estimate its future budget fairly accurately. At least, that’s the way it’s worked for us in our other factories.”

“I see,” Griff said. The room was oppressively hot. He wanted to get out of that room and away from McQuade.

“Oh,” McQuade went on, “the cost may vary five or six cents in any given year, but it still serves as a good starting point, and the five or six cents is really negligible in a large-scale operation.”

“What do you think of that, eh?” Manelli said, smiling.

“Well…” Griff started.

“Joe,” McQuade interrupted, “was good enough to let me see the figures you submitted from your cost card, data for the past year. The figures showing cost without profit, cost with—”

“Yes, I know the ones you mean,” Griff said sourly, remembering the foolhardy job, and still resenting it.

“Very well,” McQuade said, ignoring Griff’s tone. “From those figures, by the simple process of long division, I was able to compute an average cost of any pair of shoes that leaves the factory.”

“Last year’s average cost, you mean,” Griff said.

“Yes, of course.” McQuade scratched his jaw. “It comes to seven dollars and twenty cents.”

“You realize—”

“Our selling price on a pair of shoes varies,” McQuade said. “Sometimes I find the factory making a ten per or even twelve per cent profit, which is well above the six per cent return we normally expect. In other cases, unfortunately, our profit barely comes to two and a half per cent.”

“I don’t understand what you’re driving at,” Griff said.

McQuade folded his hands patiently. “We have now established,” he said, “an average cost of seven twenty per pair. That means that every pair of shoes which went through this factory in the past year cost us exactly seven twenty to make.”

“That’s not true,” Griff said.

McQuade arched one eyebrow. “Oh, isn’t it?”

“No. In the first place, it’s an estimated cost. And in the second place, it’s not a true one. An alligator may have cost us, say, sixteen dollars to make and a sandal may have cost us… well, I don’t know, maybe two dollars… and another shoe may have cost us three dollars. If you add those costs and divide them by three, you’ll get an average cost of seven dollars, but it’s not a true cost.

“Seven dollars and twenty cents, to be specific,” McQuade said, “and no one is inquiring into the truth or fiction of the cost. We are labeling it average cost, and surely you are not disputing the fact that it is an average cost.”

“No,” Griff said, “but it’s still an est—”

“The point is this,” McQuade said. “Once having established an average cost, seven twenty in this instance, the factory could then add its six per cent profit, and it would even be possible to maintain an average selling price which—”

“You mean you’re going to sell an alligator pump for the same price you’re going to sell a sandal? Really, that’s—”

“I did not say that, Griff,” McQuade said. “We will add our six per cent profit to the average cost and then sell every shoe we make to the Sales Division, at an average selling price.”

“The Sales Division?”

“Yes. They will be billed for the shoes, which will remain in our stock room until delivery is called for. We will be paid for the shoes when they are billed. All on paper, of course.”

“I see. But—”

“After that, the Sales Division can put whatever goddam selling price they want to on a shoe. If they want to merchandise an alligator pump at ten cents, that’s their business. But at the end of the year, the factory will be showing a profit, and if Sales is showing a loss, they’d damn well better be ready to account for it.”

“Well,” Griff said, “that may sound all right, but—”

“You will admit that Sales is the logical place for a selling price to be established?”

“No.”

“You think Cost should establish the price?”

“Cost, in cooperation with Sales. Just the way we’ve been doing it.”

“I can’t agree with you. I’ve already sent a recommendation to Georgia, suggesting that Julien Kahn follow the procedure now being used in our other divisions.”

“It won’t work,” Griff said, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“For several reasons. First of all, you’re dividing Sales from Factory. You can’t—”

“They should be divided.”

“No, they should not be,” Griff contradicted. “When Factory is slow, it’s Sales that comes through with permission to cut stock shoes. Why should Sales order stock shoes and then be penalized if they haven’t sold those shoes at the end of the year? Or penalized if they cut the price in order to merchandise them?”

“Factory is not going to be slow ever again,” McQuade said. “We are now cutting twenty-eight hundred pairs a day. We’ll be cutting three thousand soon. After that, who knows? There’ll always be plenty of work, believe me.”

“Except in slack seasons,” Griff said. “Besides, that’s not the most important thing.”

“What is?”

“Your figuring. It’s all wrong. You’ve taken yourself an average cost of seven dollars and twenty cents, based on last year’s pairage. You’ve just now said we’re already up to twenty-eight hundred, and soon we’ll be up to three thousand and maybe higher. Your cost is going to come down when we start making more shoes. It’s come down already.”

“Then we’ll adjust the average cost accordingly.”

“Sure, you can do that. Sure, why not? But it’ll still be nonsensical. This happens to be a fashion house. Suppose the fashion genuises decide that sandals are going to be the big thing next year? We’ll be cutting sandals until our eyes fall out. All right, the labor is higher on a sandal, but the cost of material is practically nil. What makes you think last year’s cost would apply in a year big with sandals?”

“It will,” McQuade said. “It’s worked in our other factories.”

“But what are you cutting in your other factories? Men’s shoes! What the hell ever changes on a man’s shoe? From year to year you’ve got the same damned thing, oh, a few extra gimmicks here and there, but basically the same. So, sure, you can figure so much for your leather, and so much for each operation, and aside from minor rises and drops in pay scale or material prices, that figure will apply year after year. Your average cost will be a working thing. The same damn thing with casuals.

“But this is fashion, fashion! Who knows what’s going to happen next year, or the year after? With women, you never know. They may take to walking in the street barefooted! God damn it, surely you know this for a fact! Who expected skirts to drop in forty-six or forty-seven or whenever the hell it was? Who can predict anything that will happen in the fashion world? I’m telling you that running a fashion house on an average-cost system is pure suicide. You’d be losing money left and right. You’d be losing so much—”

“I don’t think so,” McQuade said.

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Griff said recklessly. He was talking about shoes now, and he was talking about Julien Kahn, and he knew and loved both. “I can go back in our books and show you. We’ve gone back one year already. All right, go back two years and three years, if you like, and you’ll see how the average cost for last year differs from the average cost for the years preceding it, and differs enough to make a big—”

He stopped short, realizing he was about to say “difference” and hating himself for getting tangled up in his own heated discussion.

“You can show me that from your books?” McQuade asked.

“Damn right, I can.”

“Then show it to me.”

“Show…?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Manelli said. “Why don’t you show it to him, Griff?”

Griff glanced sourly at his comptroller.

“Go back to your cost cards,” McQuade said. “You’ve already given me the figures for last year. All right, go back two years, and then go back three years, listing your costs without profit for every pattern we made. Let me have average costs for two and three years ago, costs which we can then compare with the average cost for last year. If there is any appreciable difference…” McQuade shrugged. “I will then send the figures to Georgia, and let them decide.”

“That seems like a lot of work for nothing,” Griff said, beginning to suspect another invented work project, beginning to feel like something of a fool for having stepped into it so easily. “You can take my word for it that—”

“I take no one’s word where it comes to possible loss,” McQuade said quickly.

Manelli smiled. “Can’t condemn a man for that attitude, can you Griff?”

“I’ll tell you frankly what I have recommended, Griff,” McQuade said. “I’ve recommended that the Cost Department be disbanded, its employees transferred to other departments of our operation. I’ve recommended the establishment of an average cost, the addition of Factory’s six per cent profit to that cost, and the sale of shoes on completion to the Sales Division, the transfer to take place on paper. I’ve recommended that Sales be allowed to establish its own selling price, with full responsibility for them.” He paused. “You can see, I’m sure, that if we no longer find it necessary to either cost or price a shoe here at the factory, well, there’s no longer any need for the Cost Department.”

Griff shook his head. “No,” he said. “I tried to explain to you before that our costs are all estimated. In actual production, the cost comes all the way down. If you’re figuring an average cost based on estimated cost, you’re going to have a top-heavy budget. You’ll overprice yourself right out of the competition.”

“You’ll have to prove that to me, too.”

“You mean that actual cost is lower than estimated cost? Oh, hell, that’s a simple production fact. Everyone knows that.”

“Certainly, but how much lower?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not interested in a difference of ten cents or so per pair. That wouldn’t strain us, budget-wise.”

“It would come to a hell of a lot more than that, I can tell you,” Griff said.

“How can you tell me?”

“How? By checking the actual figures with Sal and Morris. They’ve got figures which show what every pair of shoes that ever went through this factory really cost us. No guesswork there, Mr. McQuade, none at all. They know what we paid for material, and they know how much material went into each shoe, and they know what the man got for working on that shoe. Why, how do you think we check our estimates?” Against those figures, and we adjust our price accordingly.”

“In that case, we could base our budget on the actual cost for last year,” McQuade said, spreading his hands at the simplicity of the idea.

“But the actual cost for last year won’t be the actual cost for this year,” Griff said wearily. “Not in a fashion house, can’t you see that? That’s why we have a Cost Department. Look, take this Far Eastern brocade we’re working on now. Do you know what that stuff costs? Forty dollars a yard! All right, we’re now figuring our budgets on a four-month basis. Suppose the next four months is going to be loaded with this brocade, and alligators, and lizards, and Sapphire silks. We get those silks from Spain, you know. Do you honestly think your average cost, estimated or actual, will be the same for those four months as it was for the preceding four months? That’s plain lunacy. I never heard of a budget based on—”

“Titanic does it,” McQuade insisted.

“With your goddam men’s shoes and casuals,” Griff exploded. “This is a fashion house! Your Cost Department is the only department that can keep an eye on trends and adjust the budget accordingly. Your budget must be based on what is actually happening. You can’t possibly base it on a crazy figure you took from last year’s books.”

McQuade smiled for the first time, as if he were happy the conversation had swung back to the books again. “Prove it to me,” he said.

Griff sighed. “And if I don’t?”

McQuade shrugged. “My recommendation is already in.”

“I see.” He paused. “You’ll send my figures to Titanic? You’ll let them judge on the basis of those figures?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll get the figures for you.”

“In a hurry, I hope.”

“I’ll need at least two weeks. Even with Marge and Aaron helping, it’ll take at least two weeks. There’s other work to be done every day, too, you know.”

“Oh yes, I know,” McQuade said, his smiling expanding. “But two weeks sounds fair enough. If your figures prove valid, I’m sure Titanic will veto my recommendation. If not…” He gestured limply with one hand.

“What do you consider ‘valid’?” Griff asked.

“A sizable difference between estimated costs over the past three years. And for last year a sizable difference between average estimated cost and average actual cost.”

“And what do you consider a ‘sizable difference’?” “What do you consider a sizable difference, Griff?”

“I’d say anything over ten cents a pair would be a large enough difference to knock your budget all to hell. But I won’t quibble. I’ll give you twenty cents on a pair.”

“That sounds fair enough, Griff. You know, of course, that I’ll have the figures thoroughly checked before sending them down to Georgia.”

“Of course,” Griff said sourly. He raised his eyes, meeting McQuade’s levelly. “And you know, of course, that I’m not talking through my hat, don’t you? You know these figures are going to prove you wrong.”

McQuade smiled. “We’ll see,” he said. “I suggest you get started as soon as possible.”

“I will,” Griff said.

“Well,” Manelli said, sighing and smiling. “Well, now.”

Griff rose. There seemed no need for further conversation. He nodded his head briefly and walked out of the office. He probably would have gone directly past Cara’s desk had he not noticed her face. He stopped abruptly, staring at her.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Cara looked up from her desk. Her eyes were wide, and brown… and dead. They were lusterless and dull, emotionless… dead.

“What’s the matter?” he asked again. “Is something wrong?”

“No. No, nothing,” she said.

“You look…”

“I’m leaving Julien Kahn, Griff,” she said. “I’ve already given notice.”

“You are?” he said. “Why?”

She was silent for a long while. Then she said, “I have to.”

“Has Joe been giving you…?”

“No, no, he’s fine. It’s… for myself, Griff. I think… I think this is a dead end; do you know what I mean?”

He watched her eyes. There was no life in her eyes. She seemed to be an empty shell with nothing inside. And then suddenly her eyes clouded, and then they were wet, and he stared at her surprised, wondering what had caused the tears.

“Hey, look,” he said, “what’s the matt—”

“Griff,” she said, “be careful. Please, please be careful.”

“Of what? Hey, come on now. You don’t have to—”

“Of McQuade,” she said, and there was timbre in her voice now, and her eyes sparked momentarily.

“I am careful of him,” Griff said honestly.

“You’re a good guy,” she said, “one of the good guys. Don’t let him destroy you, Griff. He… he can destroy you, you know.”

“Is he the reason…?”

“Promise, Griff,” she said. “Promise you’ll watch yourself.”

“I promise,” he said. He paused. “Listen, let us know where you relocate, won’t you? Marge and I would like to…”

And then he stopped because her eyes had become dead again, and she was not listening to him.

He was not for a moment fooled by McQuade’s strategy, nor was he annoyed with having been taken in by it. Actually, he’d had no choice. He knew that McQuade was wielding a double-edged sword, and he examined each razor-sharp edge dispassionately.

The first edge had been dipped in the oil of despair and then honed with subtlety, a last quiet attempt to force Griff into throwing up his hands in disgusted defeat. Searching back through an additional two years’ cost cards was nothing more than a tedious, back-breaking job. Compiling actual cost for the past year was another thankless task. The tedium and monotony itself would have been enough to discourage most men.

A lesser man, or perhaps even a smarter man, would have said to hell with it. A smarter man, or perhaps even a lesser man, would have conceded to McQuade and left Julien Kahn to plow its own insane road to certain disaster.

But there was still the other edge to McQuade’s weapon, and that edge was a sharp one, far sharper than the first.

Griff was fighting for his job.

McQuade had already made his senseless recommendation to Titanic. The recommendation, if acted upon, would eliminate the Cost Department. Griff did not want Cost eliminated.

If his figures showed McQuade to be wrong, McQuade and Titanic would undoubtedly concede, and the Cost Department would survive, but the flow of stupid requests would not end until Griff quit the job. If he refused to work up the figures, the Cost Department was doomed, and he’d be transferred God only knew where. In either case McQuade would win.

But suicide was not a cheerful prospect, nor was Raymond Griffin the type of man who could put a gun to his own head. And so, doggedly, wearily, almost vengefully, he got to work on the problem of fighting for his job, the job that was his life and his roots.

The idea was a curious one. In his mind, it took on an overwhelming enormity that went beyond the tangible aspects of the problem. He felt, somewhat foolishly, like the last bastion of defense against McQuade’s encroaching army. The picture of a hero standing alone sometimes made him want to laugh aloud, but, amusing or not, he accepted the picture.

McQuade was only one man, a representative of the machine which was Titanic Shoe. He had stepped into Julien Kahn, and he had sweet-talked and bludgeoned and oiled and pressured, but he was only a man, wasn’t he? He was only a man trying to do a job, that’s all. He was only a stationmaster trying to get those trains to run on time. Well, by God, he was succeeding. The trains were running jim-dandy now what with all the factory changes. There was just one funny thing: nobody liked riding the trains any more.

It was sure a funny thing, all right. Hadn’t Titanic done everything possible for the workers? Raises, sanitation, safety, comfort, leisure? Hadn’t Titanic magnanimously showered all these wonderful things on the populace of Julien Kahn?

But beneath the smooth running of the trains, beneath the slick, streamlined metal and the smoking cars and the shining new rails and the clean depots, there was an unspoken fear: no one wanted to get run down.

Griff was no exception. With calm, saddening resignation, he realized that he was no exception.

There was something frightening about that rushing sleek steel monster. He did not want to be run down.

But he did want his job.

Doggedly, wearily, almost vengefully, he got to work.

“Pattern number 73–41,” Davidoff said.

“Seven three dash four one,” Griff repeated.

“Last 601 J.”

“601 J.”

“Upper materials. Suede, .143. Pair, 1476. Unit, .90. Pair, 1.318.”

“Got it.”

“Calf, 134. Pair, .1474. Unit, .98. Pair, 1.445.”

“Check.”

“Lining, sock, .45. Pair, 504. Unit, .26. Pair…”

“Tape,” Marge said.

“Point zero zero six,” Aaron replied.

“Thread.”

“Point zero five zero.”

“Cement.”

“Point zero zero five.”

“Nailheads…”

“Cutting,” Valdero said, “.185.”

“Check.”

“Prefitting, .089.”

“Check.”

“Fitting, .827.”

“Check.”

“Assembly, .016.”

“Check.”

“Stockfitting, .078…”

         .206…

           .036…

             1.001…

           .703…

         .225…

    1.289…

    2.307…

    1.006…

    ———

    4.602

   .118  .1357  .45  .611

   .120  .1310  .26  .024

    ⅜″ d.f.   2½ yards lin.

They sat on the fire escape of Marge’s apartment, looking out over the monotonous roofs of the factories, listening to the moan of the tugs on the river. The beer bottles rested at their feet, the thick brown glass sweating profusely. He was unusually quiet that night. She lay back in his arms, her hands clasped over his, and she felt the pent-up tension of his silence.

His first reaction to Titanic’s decision had been one of sad resignation. All right, they’d decided against him. He couldn’t understand how or why, but the decision had been made, and there was nothing to be done now but go along with it.

But his resignation had evaporated before a feeling of frustrated rage. Why had they decided against him? Hadn’t they read the figures?

He had gone first to Manelli and cautiously felt him out on the subject. Did Manelli have any idea why Titanic went along with McQuade’s recommendation, even in the face of Griff’s contrary figures? Manelli had not seemed very interested. Manelli still had his job, and that was all that counted as far as he was concerned.

“Who understands the way big outfits operate, Griff?” he’d said. “Do I? Do you? How do I know what happened? Maybe they figured it would all average out in the end. Maybe they prefer a uniform setup for each of their divisions. How do I know?”

Manelli’s disinterested comments had not satisfied him. He had gone then to Langer, the man who’d replaced Manelli as head accountant of the firm. He had shown Langer a copy of his figures and then told him about McQuade’s recommendation and Titanic’s action. Langer had been truly puzzled. It seemed to him that Titanic was making a mistake, but perhaps they had something else in mind. How could you tell with an outfit of this size?

Disgusted, he had sought Aaron’s advice, telling him he had half a mind to challenge Titanic on their decision. If they’d made an error in judgment, shouldn’t someone point it out to them? Aaron did not think so. Someone, perhaps, should point it out to them, but hadn’t Griff gone to Manelli? Didn’t Griff know anything about the chain of command, all those years in the army, hadn’t they taught him anything? Suppose he questioned Titanic, and suppose they did have a damned good reason for disbanding Cost, where would that leave Griff? Griff had remained unconvinced. How could he ever know what Titanic really felt unless he asked them directly?

“Sure,” Aaron had said. “Ask them. And maybe you’ll lose your job in the bargain.”

He had thought about it for the remainder of that week. On Friday, Manelli explained the new scheme of things. Aaron was moving into Valdero’s department, where he would serve as a much-needed assistant. Marge was being tossed into the typing pool. Griff would go back to a job he’d once held in Hengman’s office — that of tracer.

His rage burned itself out, and the resignation came back, a resignation strengthened by the bitterness of despair. He would take whatever they handed out. He still had a job, and, whereas it wasn’t the job he wanted, it was still a job. He had the future to think of.

Wearily, he had set about his new-old duties as tracer. But somehow, there was no joy for him any more. His trips onto the factory floor left him curiously unhappy.

His silence tonight disturbed Marge. She knew he was pained, and the pain spread to include her, too, and she wanted desperately to help him, but she didn’t know quite how.

“What is it, darling?” she asked.

“There’s no sense talking about it,” he said. “Not any more, there isn’t.”

“If you don’t want to,” Marge said.

“It’s just the damned stupidity of it, that’s all,” he said. “I can’t figure it out, Marge.”

“Titanic’s decision?”

“Yes. Marge, this was a case of black and white! All they had to do was read the figures. Damn it, wasn’t there an accountant in all Georgia who could lay those figures alongside McQuade’s recommendation and see that it was unfeasible? That’s what gets me, Marge. The stupidity of it, the enormous stupidity!”

“They’re only human, Griff. Perhaps they made a mistake. If they did, they’ll realize it sooner or later.”

“Yes,” Griff said, “but… Marge, I don’t know what to think any more. Honestly.”

“How do you mean?”

“About Titanic. I’ve… I’ve got this crazy idea in my head.”

“What idea, Griff?”

“That Titanic is like… like the world.”

“The world?”

“Yes. And… and Julien Kahn is a… a country, do you see? And we all live in that country and… and McQuade happens to us.”

“I see, darling,” she said.

“The world is good. I mean, basically good. But somehow, McQuade has managed to fool the world, the same way he fooled us in the beginning. Oh sure, Titanic’s not perfect, but if it knew about somebody like McQuade, wouldn’t it stand up and… and fight to throw him out? The trouble is, it doesn’t know. Only we know, Marge. McQuade’s a power-mad son of a bitch, but, when the world looks at him objectively, they see only the good things he’s done. We are working in a cleaner factory, aren’t we, and we have gotten raises, and oh, Jesus, Jesus…”

“What is it, Griff?”

“It’s McQuade,” he said. “It’s all McQuade. He’s twisted, Marge, twisted with this… this longing for power. He’s taken these good ideas and he’s… he’s managed to turn them around so that they’re bad. And yet, they’re not really bad because everybody has benefited by them. Oh, God damn it, I don’t know what I mean.”

She wished she could help him put it into words. But he had grown silent again, and she thought he would never let it out, keeping it bottled there poisonously forever.

“It’s this, Marge,” he said suddenly.

“Yes, darling?”

“It’s… he’s given the men all these good things like… like toys to play with… like pats on the head. He’s given them as a sort of opiate, he’s drugged everyone so that his power will go unquestioned. He’s here and Titanic is all the way down in Georgia, so he can get away with it. They don’t understand his… his contempt, Marge; that’s it, contempt.

“He has only contempt for people, Marge. He’s given the workers all these wonderful things, but he wouldn’t hesitate to squeeze them lifeless in his fist if he thought his power were in danger. There’s only one important person in McQuade’s scheme of things: McQuade. He has taken Julien Kahn and squeezed it dry, and all so that he can feel his own power. And I think the workers sense his contempt, Marge. Not only those of us who’ve come into close contact with him, but all the others, too. I think they’re suspicious of him, and I think… I think they’re afraid.”

“I see,” Marge said softly.

“There’s the crux of it,” he said sadly. “Fear. We’re all afraid of him. We were afraid of him in the beginning, and we’re still…”

“No, Griff,” she said. “I can’t believe that.”

“It’s true, Marge. We should have stood up to him the day he turned on that hose in the Cutting Room. Our human dignity should have screamed out, and the mob should have thrown him through a window. But we were afraid, all of us. We allowed him to grind one man, and, once he’d done that, he’d ground us all, do you see?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Marge, why do I keep hanging onto this job? I’m stuck in Hengman’s office, and I’m doing a job that no longer interests me, a job I outgrew years ago, but I’m hanging on. Why? Because I’m afraid to leave. I know I have to earn a living, and I’m not sure I’ll get another job so easily at the same salary, and I like that security. So I stick around, even though I know the climate of the business now, and McQuade’s power still scares me.

“I once said that recognizing his power made me feel strong, but it doesn’t really, Marge. It makes me feel angry, but it doesn’t give me the strength to stand up to him. You want to fight, you want to, you want to… but you’re scared.”

She nodded in the darkness, feeling the tenseness of his arms.

“Marge,” he said, almost surprised, “he’s stolen our humanity, the son of a bitch has stolen our humanity. Why the hell won’t we fight him, even now? He’s only a man, Marge. What can one man do to another man? Damn it, isn’t there any sense in fighting for what’s right?”

His question hung on the fetid night air. She lay in the circle of his arms and tilted her head back to look at his face, and she saw him nod his head slowly and deliberately.

“It’s terrible to feel like a coward, Marge. I’m a man who can identify a murderer, but I won’t go to the police. Marge, Marge, we could have stopped him, in the beginning, when the dagger was still hidden behind a smiling face, before his spiked heel came down on the first broken back. But let him steal one man’s dignity, and he’s vanquished us all.”

He paused. “We’re dead now, Marge. The fight has to come from us, but we’re incapable of it. He’s taken our country, Marge, and now he’ll set about proving himself to the world, to Titanic. It’s too late, it’s too late.”

“Not if you feel this way, Griff. It’s not too late if you…”

“I have the feeling he’ll destroy us all, Marge, every single one of us. And we won’t lift a finger to stop him. Oh, Marge, Marge, what’ll he do next? What’ll he do next?”

She heard the words as they tumbled from his mouth, wrenched from somewhere deep within him. She heard the words, and she felt the sudden shudder of his body, and she moved closer against him, wanting to answer him, wanting to reassure him, but she did not know the answer, and his words hung on the night air until their echo chilled her.

“Naked Flesh,” McQuade said. His eyes were glowing. There was a smile on his face, and he produced the words with the triumph of a man producing a royal flush in a poker game.

Andy Neggler held McQuade’s eyes, trying hard to avoid the contagion of their fervor. He had had people come into his Chrysler Building office with ideas before. It was too simple to get on fire about something, only to have the fire suddenly cool off. Neggler didn’t like holding dead ashes in his fist.

“I want to make it the biggest shoe in our history,” McQuade said.

“We’ve had a lot of big shoes in our history, Mr. McQuade,” Neggler answered calmly.

“None that’ll compare to this.”

“You feel this shoe is really going to catch on, is that right?”

“I know this shoe is going to catch on, Andy,” McQuade said. “I know it’s going to catch on, because I’m going to make it catch on. This shoe is going to be my baby, Andy.”

“Well, Mr. McQuade,” Neggler said, “I don’t know very much about obstetrics, except that some babies are stillborn. There’s no telling what the consumer will go for, and what she won’t.”

“That’s why we have an Advertising Department, Andy,” McQuade said.

“Admittedly. But we could advertise this thing to hell and back, and if milady doesn’t want it she won’t buy it.”

“She’ll buy it,” McQuade said flatly. “It’s our job to make her want to buy it. When we get through with this shoe, she’ll think it’s more desirable than the Kohinoor diamond.

“That’s a pretty optimistic viewpoint. Naturally, Advertising is here to advertise, but—”

“Of course,” McQuade said.

“But,” Neggler continued, unruffled, “you have to realize that we don’t guarantee results.”

“You should,” McQuade told him. “If Advertising doesn’t get results, we need a new Advertising Department.”

“Well, uh, that’s not exactly what I meant, Mr. McQuade,” Neggler said. He studied the man from Titanic carefully. He would have to be cautious now. He would have to watch what he said. “I simply meant that the female consumer is a fickle person who—”

“What’s your usual advertising outlay on any single shoe?” McQuade broke in.

“Well, we don’t usually work it that way, Mr. McQuade,” Neggler explained. “The Cost Department generally works up a tentative budget for the whole line, figuring in our profit, and figuring what sort of an outlay would be feasible for—”

“Julien Kahn no longer has a Cost Department,” McQuade said.

“Well, even so, our job is selling every shoe in the line. To concentrate on one particular shoe… well, that could be disastrous if the shoe didn’t catch on. Here in Advertising, we try to—”

“One big shoe,” McQuade said, “could carry the whole line. And that big shoe this fall will be Naked Flesh.”

“Maybe,” Neggler said. “It depends on—”

“No maybe’s about it. I want it to be the big shoe,” and it’s going to be the big shoe.” He paused. “How many ads do you take in a given month?”

“That’s hard to say. We try to spread them out. If we’re hitting Vogue and Seventeen this month, we’ll hit Harper’s and Mademoiselle the next month. We’ll spot ads in Glamour, Town and Country, oh, anywhere we think the ad’ll pull. We’re trying to sell shoes, you see.”

“I see.” McQuade thought for a moment. “Have you ever hit all of them in a single month?”

“All of them?” Neggler asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, no, we haven’t. That can run into a lot of dough, Mr. McQuade. We’ve got to consider our budget.”

“Hit all of them with Naked Flesh,” McQuade said, smiling.

“You mean… well, what do you mean by all of them?”

“Every magazine a style-conscious woman will read. And the Sunday supplements of the newspapers that get national distribution. And the snob mags. All of them.”

“That can… that can run into a high five-figure advertising outlay for… well, for a single shoe. And in a single month.”

“That’s right,” McQuade said.

“Maybe even six figures. Frankly, I wouldn’t advise—”

“I’m not here for your advice, Andy,” McQuade said.

Neggler studied McQuade for a moment, wondering how best to put his thoughts into words tactfully and still get his department off the hook. “You see,” he started cautiously, “I couldn’t do this without… well, without clearance.”

McQuade smiled. “You’ve got clearance,” he said.

“I mean, well, you know, Mr. McQuade. I mean from Titanic.”

“I mean from Titanic.”

Neggler waited for McQuade to say more. McQuade was silent. Neggler wet his lips. “What I mean is, we’d… I’d have to tell Titanic just what Advertising was going to do.” He tried a feeble laugh. “After all, I can’t just dump buckets of the company’s money into a single appropriation without authority.”

“That’s right,” McQuade said, smiling.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. McQuade?”

“You’ve got your authority, Andy.”

Neggler nodded, accepting this. “What about… what about the rest of our line?”

“Naked Flesh will carry the rest of the line.”

“It may not, you know. It may—”

“It will,” McQuade said flatly.

Neggler smiled weakly. “Whatever you say, Mr. McQuade.”

“I want you to get up some brochures on Naked Flesh, too.”

“Brochures?”

“For the salesmen. I want that shoe photographed in every conceivable position. I want copy on it that’ll make the retailers drool. And I want the copy to stress the fact that this shoe is getting a tremendous national advertising build-up.”

“These brochures can run into a lot of change, too, Mr. McQuade. Especially if you want them in color. In view of the large advertising expenditure, I don’t think—”

“Do it,” McQuade said. He paused, thinking a moment. “There’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?” Neggler asked apprehensively.

“We’ve been giving a two and a half per cent discount to the retailers, that discount to be used for local advertisement, am I right?”

“Yes. We’ve found that we can absorb that loss by the increased volume of—”

“We’ll boost the discount to five per cent,” McQuade said.

“Fi — that’s a… that’s a big chunk for local advertising.”

“It’s not a big chunk,” McQuade corrected. “Not if we can sell this shoe. I want this shoe to hit women in the eye wherever they look. Do they read the Ladies’ Home Journal? All right, I want an ad there. Do they read the Oshkosh Despatch-Courier? Fine! The local retailer will be advertising in the paper, with cuts supplied by us, with monies supplied by our five per cent discount. If this shoe catches on, we may even take car cards in trains and buses. I’m bucking for a landslide sale, can you understand that? I want everyone to know that Julien Kahn is on its feet, and that Julien Kahn is going to push forward from now on. I want Naked Flesh to be the biggest-selling shoe we’ve ever made. I want Naked Flesh to lure those women into the shops, pull them, seduce them into the shops. I want them to buy that shoe, and I want them to ogle the rest of our line, and the rest of our line will take care of itself! Get started, Andy. They’re a lot of people I’ve got to see yet!”

Because Griff was back at his old job of tracer, because this job took him to every corner of the factory, he had the opportunity to observe what was happening with Naked Flesh — the way a doctor observes the fever of an epidemic while making his weary rounds.

And because Cost would have kept a close watch on the production of a shoe, because problems would automatically have been brought to Cost, because Griff knew the factory, because Griff was a friend — everyone came to him now with their troubles. Even those who had turned on him, even those now turned to him in their desperation.

“He’s canceled all vacations!” Manelli said. “Griff, he has cancelled all vacations!”

“He can’t do that,” Griff said. “The union’ll jump on his back so hard he’ll—”

“I told him that. I told him our contract calls for a two-week vacation for all factory personnel. He said the contract does not specify when this vacation shall be granted. He says we’ll never meet orders oh Naked Flesh if the factory lays off for two weeks.”

“He’s right. The retailers are snapping up that shoe as if it were—”

“Sure, but what am I supposed to tell the workers? Griff, they’ve been planning on this vacation all year! They’ve made reservations! Don’t you think this’ll upset schedules? Griff, what can I do?”

“I don’t know,” Griff said helplessly.

Julien Kahn, Inc.

Chrysler Building

New York, New York