"I can build the domned things," McNeil retorted. "But I'll sweat in hell if I see any use for them. Solid copper bus-bars twenty-four inches in diameter! We don't build a generator—and neither does anybody else in the world—that needs such cables to carry the current it produces."
"They're just part of a big order that came down from the front office marked 'Rush'," the production manager answered. "But they do seem out of reason—" His forehead wrinkled into a frown. He hesitated. "But an order is an order. Build them. What the customer wants with them is his business."
When McNeil left the office the production manager was still frowning. Twenty-four inch cables—. He scratched his head, as if to stir to life a sluggish idea. Then he got up, walked through the plant, up to the general offices, and the girl in the beautifully finished reception room said Mr. Tompkins would see him in a minute.
"The point I make is this," the production manager said to Mr. Tompkins, "if anybody is building a generator that requires cables of that size, we had better know about that generator."
Tompkins didn't show any emotion. He was a heavy man, not from fat but from muscle. Strength. He had to have strength to hold down his job as general manager. His eyes narrowed slightly and a tiny glow appeared in them.
"A fellow by the name of Garth placed that order," Tompkins said. "Garth? Garth? Where have I heard that name before? Umph!" He remembered the presence of his subordinate. "Thank you. You may go."
The production manager went.
Tompkins flicked a switch on his desk. "Call Railton."
He went on thinking. His eyes narrowed to slits and the glow deepened.
Railton came. "You called me?" he asked. He was a slickie, a front man. College, teck school. Knew all about electricity, and what made the wheels go round. Knew how to talk it. Well dressed, smart.