Then he saw the havoc that had been done to his shirt. "Why, you bastard!" he yelled. "Look what you done to my shirt! God damn you, if I-"
Vail seized the left hand also; held both in a firm grip. "Jack's just tired," he informed Busken. "He's been out in the heat too long. You come inside, Jack. It's twenty degrees cooler inside."
He leaned back and pulled, trying to pull the hapless Jack across the counter. Busken was almost dancing with glee.
"Throw me the broom, Dilly!" he chortled. "We'll give ol' Jack-he, he-a prostate. Want a nice massage, Jackie? He, he!"
I handed him an ordinary kitchen broom, and, standing well out of kicking range, he drew the worn straws slowly between Jack's buttocks. Jack writhed and shrieked with laughter and rage. Busken tickled him delicately upon the testicles. Jack leaped high into the air.
As Busken worked the tormenting broom-and I have never seen anyone put more enthusiasm into a task- Vail tugged. So, gradually, Jack began to slide across the counter.
Midway in the process, Moon came up and stood watching, neither amused nor unamused. Vail turned to him, inquiringly.
"Want something?"
"How long you going to be busy here?"
"Oh, we'll have him over in a minute."
"Better hurry it up. It's about time for the guard to come around."
A moment or so later, Jack was pulled inside. He was a wreck. He could do nothing but stand and curse, and even that not very effectively.
"You'd better get on out of here," observed Moon. "No one's supposed to be in here but employees of the department."
"Damn it!" screamed Jack. "Didn't you see what happened? Do you think-?"
"Well, you go on, now," Moon repeated. "I'm supposed to keep you fellows out of here, and I'm going to do it."
Jack went out the gate muttering, tucking in his ruined shirt.
"You come with me, Dilly," said Moon. "I want you to do some typing."
I walked around to Gross's desk with him. "Let Dilly have your stool, Gross," he said. "I want him to do some typing."
Gross got to his feet. "I can do it."
"You go help Murphy take those propellers over to Service."
Gross reddened. "I thought I was supposed to be the bookkeeper around here."
"Who said you weren't?"
"Well-what're you-why are you- Oh, hell!" He strode off, scowling.
"Now this is a shortage report you're going to type, Dilly," said Moon, handing me two hand-inscribed pieces of paper. "A first- release shortage report. The first release is for twenty-five ships, the second for fifty, and so on. As we really get organized and step up production the size of the releases gets bigger."
"Then, this shortage report," I said, "it's intended to show the parts you need to complete twenty-five ships?"
"That's it. Ordinarily you'd have to take the shortages from the books, but since you're new, I've done it. Look. Here's your first item- -a bulkhead bracket, Number F-1198. We use four of those to a ship. We've issued forty to Final Assembly, and we have forty-three in stock. That gives us a shortage of seventeen. Twenty-five ships would require a hundred parts, and eighty-three from a hundred leaves seventeen."
"I get it," I said.
"Good. Give me an original and four copies, and let's see how fast you can turn them out."
I scoured my hands on my pants, fitted carbon and paper into the typewriter, and got to work. I was nervous, naturally, and the typewriter wasn't all it should have been. But I knocked out that shortage report-composed almost entirely of symbols and figures-in less than half an hour. And it didn't have a single mistake in it.
Rather proudly I handed it to Moon.
He looked at it, looked at me. "What are these smudges?"
"Why, I guess they're from the bolts I was handling," I said. "They're not very bad, are they?"
The question was rhetorical as far as I was concerned. The pages were practically spotless.
"I can't send anything to the office that looks like this," said Moon.
"Well," I said, "I'll wash my hands and do it over."
"Let it go."
"But I don't
Vail seized the left hand also; held both in a firm grip. "Jack's just tired," he informed Busken. "He's been out in the heat too long. You come inside, Jack. It's twenty degrees cooler inside."
He leaned back and pulled, trying to pull the hapless Jack across the counter. Busken was almost dancing with glee.
"Throw me the broom, Dilly!" he chortled. "We'll give ol' Jack-he, he-a prostate. Want a nice massage, Jackie? He, he!"
I handed him an ordinary kitchen broom, and, standing well out of kicking range, he drew the worn straws slowly between Jack's buttocks. Jack writhed and shrieked with laughter and rage. Busken tickled him delicately upon the testicles. Jack leaped high into the air.
As Busken worked the tormenting broom-and I have never seen anyone put more enthusiasm into a task- Vail tugged. So, gradually, Jack began to slide across the counter.
Midway in the process, Moon came up and stood watching, neither amused nor unamused. Vail turned to him, inquiringly.
"Want something?"
"How long you going to be busy here?"
"Oh, we'll have him over in a minute."
"Better hurry it up. It's about time for the guard to come around."
A moment or so later, Jack was pulled inside. He was a wreck. He could do nothing but stand and curse, and even that not very effectively.
"You'd better get on out of here," observed Moon. "No one's supposed to be in here but employees of the department."
"Damn it!" screamed Jack. "Didn't you see what happened? Do you think-?"
"Well, you go on, now," Moon repeated. "I'm supposed to keep you fellows out of here, and I'm going to do it."
Jack went out the gate muttering, tucking in his ruined shirt.
"You come with me, Dilly," said Moon. "I want you to do some typing."
I walked around to Gross's desk with him. "Let Dilly have your stool, Gross," he said. "I want him to do some typing."
Gross got to his feet. "I can do it."
"You go help Murphy take those propellers over to Service."
Gross reddened. "I thought I was supposed to be the bookkeeper around here."
"Who said you weren't?"
"Well-what're you-why are you- Oh, hell!" He strode off, scowling.
"Now this is a shortage report you're going to type, Dilly," said Moon, handing me two hand-inscribed pieces of paper. "A first- release shortage report. The first release is for twenty-five ships, the second for fifty, and so on. As we really get organized and step up production the size of the releases gets bigger."
"Then, this shortage report," I said, "it's intended to show the parts you need to complete twenty-five ships?"
"That's it. Ordinarily you'd have to take the shortages from the books, but since you're new, I've done it. Look. Here's your first item- -a bulkhead bracket, Number F-1198. We use four of those to a ship. We've issued forty to Final Assembly, and we have forty-three in stock. That gives us a shortage of seventeen. Twenty-five ships would require a hundred parts, and eighty-three from a hundred leaves seventeen."
"I get it," I said.
"Good. Give me an original and four copies, and let's see how fast you can turn them out."
I scoured my hands on my pants, fitted carbon and paper into the typewriter, and got to work. I was nervous, naturally, and the typewriter wasn't all it should have been. But I knocked out that shortage report-composed almost entirely of symbols and figures-in less than half an hour. And it didn't have a single mistake in it.
Rather proudly I handed it to Moon.
He looked at it, looked at me. "What are these smudges?"
"Why, I guess they're from the bolts I was handling," I said. "They're not very bad, are they?"
The question was rhetorical as far as I was concerned. The pages were practically spotless.
"I can't send anything to the office that looks like this," said Moon.
"Well," I said, "I'll wash my hands and do it over."
"Let it go."
"But I don't
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