"Oh, I see your point," Stimson agreed. "I could stand Balta, but Wilcox is just one too many for me. But do you boys think for one minute we could get away with a strike?" He laughed angrily. "I can remember when the technies were able to demand their guild rights. But you boys weren't even born then. Now, let's get this straight:
"We are going to do just as we are told. Wilcox, of course, never explains an order, but the reason for having only one operator on the job is simply to concentrate responsibility on that one man. There will be no excuse if he fails. Before the convention starts, and after it is over, there will be a message to send out. The convention itself will be secret, as usual. During the convention, there will be some kind of filler stuff from the central office."
"Yeh!" snorted one of the men. "That's the dope, all right. One of us is stuck, but if it's me I'll walk out and head for the desert."
Stimson looked at him with a sardonic smile. "I forgot to mention: the doors will be locked and barred, and of course there's no such thing as windows."
Wasil whistled. "They're sure careful. Well, Stimson. I haven't a thing to do all day. I'll take it on."
They all looked at him, not sure that they had heard him right.
"What's the matter, sonny?" Stimson said slowly. "Too much Merclite last night? You're shaking!"
"It's an opening!" Wasil insisted.
"An opening to tramp ice at the pole for the rest of your life!"