"Yes, sir," the scientist replied, approaching. "What is it, sir?"
Still shifty and cringing was he, in presence of the masters; though with the men beneath him, at the vast plant—and now his importance had grown till he controlled more than eight thousand—rumor declared him an intolerable tyrant.
"Tell me, Herzog, what's the condition of the plant, at this present moment?"
"Just how do you mean, sir?"
"Suppose there were to be trouble, of any kind, how are we fixed for it? How's the oxygen supply, and—and everything? Good God, man, unlimber! You're paid to know things and tell 'em. Now, talk."
Thus adjured, Herzog washed his hands with imaginary soap and in a deprecating voice began:
"Trouble, sir? What trouble could there be? There's not the faintest sign of any organization among the men. They're submissive as so many rabbits, sir, and—"
"Damn you, shut up!" roared Flint. "I didn't summon you to come up here and give me a lecture on labor conditions at the works! The trouble I refer to is possible outside interference. Maybe some kind of wild-eyed Socialist upheaval, or attack, or what not. In case it comes, what's our condition? Tell me, in a few words, and for God's sake keep to the point! The way you wander, and always have, gives me the creeps!"
Herzog ventured nothing in reply to this outburst, save a conciliatory leer. Then, collecting his thoughts, he began:
"Well, sir, in a general way, our condition is perfect. We've got two regiments of rifle and machine gunmen, half of them equipped with the oxygen bullets. I guarantee that I could have them away from their benches and machines, and on the fortifications, inside of fifteen minutes. Slade's armed guards, 2,500 or so, are all ready, too.