Benson’s face had made the flesh completely lifeless. Dick Benson worked and manipulated the flesh of his cheeks downward into heavy jowls, and the dead flesh stayed that way. Then The Avenger worked with his own temples till there were heavy ridges over his eyes.
His countenance was a plastic mask that could be shaped any way at all. And he was thus shaping it till he was a close twin of the stock-room employee.
But, though The Avenger did not know it, this was the last time he was going to be able to do that!
“Now, the clothes,” said Benson.
The man took off his shop clothes. He was a shade taller than Benson; so The Avenger put three-quarter-inch lifts in his shoes. When he put on the shop clothes, it would have taken a long inspection by trained eyes under bright lights to show that he was not the person he was supposed to be.
“You have just about time to get to the plant,” said the stock-room employee. “It’s seven ten. It’ll take you about forty-five minutes to get out there from here, and you’re supposed to report at eight o’clock.”
Benson nodded, and went out a Marr workman reporting to his job.
In the great plant there was unaccustomed quiet. For the place was almost entirely shut down. There were only several score men in the various stock rooms checking over the stored parts, for no machines were running after old Marr’s orders had been received.
All made-up parts had to be taken from storage bins and scrapped lest they further break the costly machinery! But among the parts were many that had been completely finished and were ready only for assembly. These could be saved, while the parts waiting for a last finishing touch would have to go.
That was why Benson had gone as a stock-room man. These men were kept busy sorting.
For about half an hour Benson went slowly, till he found his way around. Then he worked along with the rest, and talked when he could.
“Certainly a shame to discard all this stuff,” he said. “Can’t they test it for hardness?”
“Seems not,” said the man next to him at the moment. They were dumping wrist pins—complete save for the tiny oil holes—into a truck, to be wheeled to the scrap-iron heap. “Analysis doesn’t show anything wrong. Carbon’s all right—everything. But it’s just too tough. That is, a few pieces are too tough.”
“Couldn’t they find out by touching each piece with a file or something?”
“I guess not, or they’d be doing it. Wonder where old Jackson is?”
“Yeah,” said Benson. “We could sure use him.”
“I guess they’ll be taking the box off the trial assembly line, if he doesn’t show up,” said the man.
Benson didn’t say anything to that. Obviously, he was supposed to know what “the box” was. And he didn’t. So at lunch time he went to look for it.
It wasn’t hard to find.
In the finishing plant there were three assembly lines. In normal times, from the end of each line was rolled, every few minutes, a completed Marr automobile, ready to run when oiled and gassed.
At the end one of these three lines was—the box.
In fact, at first glance, that was all it looked like. Just a great big chamber, or case, almost as big as a box car, through which the assembly belt ran.
The thing was big enough to let a completed car on the line slide right through it; and at each end was a great door designed to permit just that.
At each side of the big oblong case was a sort of window. At least, it was an aperture about four feet square going right into the interior.
Resting on a tripod a yard or so from each aperture, was what might have been called the window, itself, which just fitted into these apertures: four-foot slabs about two feet thick. Only, there were wrist-thick cables trailing from the slabs, which indicated that they were not solid, but had some sort of mechanism within them.
So the steel-processing business began to make sense!
Phineas Jackson, this arrangement hinted, had not
His countenance was a plastic mask that could be shaped any way at all. And he was thus shaping it till he was a close twin of the stock-room employee.
But, though The Avenger did not know it, this was the last time he was going to be able to do that!
“Now, the clothes,” said Benson.
The man took off his shop clothes. He was a shade taller than Benson; so The Avenger put three-quarter-inch lifts in his shoes. When he put on the shop clothes, it would have taken a long inspection by trained eyes under bright lights to show that he was not the person he was supposed to be.
“You have just about time to get to the plant,” said the stock-room employee. “It’s seven ten. It’ll take you about forty-five minutes to get out there from here, and you’re supposed to report at eight o’clock.”
Benson nodded, and went out a Marr workman reporting to his job.
In the great plant there was unaccustomed quiet. For the place was almost entirely shut down. There were only several score men in the various stock rooms checking over the stored parts, for no machines were running after old Marr’s orders had been received.
All made-up parts had to be taken from storage bins and scrapped lest they further break the costly machinery! But among the parts were many that had been completely finished and were ready only for assembly. These could be saved, while the parts waiting for a last finishing touch would have to go.
That was why Benson had gone as a stock-room man. These men were kept busy sorting.
For about half an hour Benson went slowly, till he found his way around. Then he worked along with the rest, and talked when he could.
“Certainly a shame to discard all this stuff,” he said. “Can’t they test it for hardness?”
“Seems not,” said the man next to him at the moment. They were dumping wrist pins—complete save for the tiny oil holes—into a truck, to be wheeled to the scrap-iron heap. “Analysis doesn’t show anything wrong. Carbon’s all right—everything. But it’s just too tough. That is, a few pieces are too tough.”
“Couldn’t they find out by touching each piece with a file or something?”
“I guess not, or they’d be doing it. Wonder where old Jackson is?”
“Yeah,” said Benson. “We could sure use him.”
“I guess they’ll be taking the box off the trial assembly line, if he doesn’t show up,” said the man.
Benson didn’t say anything to that. Obviously, he was supposed to know what “the box” was. And he didn’t. So at lunch time he went to look for it.
It wasn’t hard to find.
In the finishing plant there were three assembly lines. In normal times, from the end of each line was rolled, every few minutes, a completed Marr automobile, ready to run when oiled and gassed.
At the end one of these three lines was—the box.
In fact, at first glance, that was all it looked like. Just a great big chamber, or case, almost as big as a box car, through which the assembly belt ran.
The thing was big enough to let a completed car on the line slide right through it; and at each end was a great door designed to permit just that.
At each side of the big oblong case was a sort of window. At least, it was an aperture about four feet square going right into the interior.
Resting on a tripod a yard or so from each aperture, was what might have been called the window, itself, which just fitted into these apertures: four-foot slabs about two feet thick. Only, there were wrist-thick cables trailing from the slabs, which indicated that they were not solid, but had some sort of mechanism within them.
So the steel-processing business began to make sense!
Phineas Jackson, this arrangement hinted, had not
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