The driver stopped the jet. He yawned and rested his head comfortably on the cushioned seat. He went quietly to sleep.
A man named Merrywinkle owned the Merrywinkle Shipping Service. That, in itself, was not unusual. But at precisely the moment that Black Eyes unleashed its mild whimper, Mr. Merrywinkle—uptown and five miles away—called an emergency conference of the board of directors and declared:
"Gentlemen, we have all been working too hard, and I, for one, am going to take a vacation. I don't know when I'll be back, but it won't be before six months."
"But C.M.," someone protested. "There's the Parker deal and the Gilette contract and a dozen other things. You're needed!"
Mr. Merrywinkle shook his bald head. "What's more, you're all taking vacations, with pay. Six months, each of you. We're closing down Merrywinkle Shipping for half a year. Give the competition a break, eh?"
"But C.M.! We're about ready to squeeze out Chambers Parcel Co.! They'll get back on their feet in six months."
"Never mind. Notify all departments of the shut-down, effective immediately. Vacations for all."
"Who shut off the assembly belt?" the foreman asked mildly. He was not a mild man and he usually stormed and ranted at the slightest provocation. This was at Clewson Jetcraft, and you couldn't produce a single jet-plane without the assembly belt, naturally.