Free Now and on Earth by Jim Thompson Page A

use. They've been ruined, or rejected by inspection. Knowing this, however, doesn't help.
    I talked to Moon about it (and he, by the way, seems to be getting a little weary of my talking).
    "Well, what do you want to do about it, Dilly?"
    "The office must keep a record on scrapped and rejected parts. I want to see it."
    "They don't know anything up there. The only way they know about scrapped parts is when they start runfling short. And you can't prove they've been scrapped, then. The guys out in Final will say that our records are wrong-that they never got the parts."
    "But the office would know by checking on raw stores-"
    Moon shook his head complacently. "No, they wouldn't, Dilly. You've got Experimental and Testing to reckon with. And then we're swapping and lending stuff all the time to other plants. Up in Purchased Parts this morning I noticed we had an invoice for forty static ground tailwheel tires. We paid for 'em and we received 'em, but we don't have them on hand and Final Assembly doesn't have them. God knows where they are."
    "If I could just get a report on rejections, then-"
    "Wouldn't do any good. When a part is rejected, it goes to the chief inspector. If he rejects it, it goes back to the department responsible for the flaws. They let it lay around a while, and then if it can't be reworked and sent back to Final, they scrap it and send the rejection tag up to the office. Or, maybe, if rejections have been running heavy against them, they throw it away. Anyway you look at it, though, we don't learn about the rejection for weeks, and it's too late then to help us."
    I didn't say anything, but I guess I looked a lot.
    "Don't let it get you down, Dilly," said Moon. "You're doing all right. As well as could be expected."
    So that's the way things are. Or were. For they're getting worse by the moment. I can't say that I'm bored any more. I don't say that the work is beneath me. It would take a genius to work his way out of this mess.
    I don't know what in the name of God to do. I've been cutting down on the liquor at night, so that my head will be clear, but it makes me so restless and sleepless that I'm not sure it's a good idea. I've tried to talk to Roberta about it, and Mom, and Frankie, but they're no help. Some of Roberta's old prophecies are coming true, and she's more interested in seeing me repent than anything else. Anyway, she doesn't know anything. Mom says I worry too much. And Frankie says they really can't pin anything on me, if it comes to a showdown, and just to tell 'em all to go jump in the lake. Jo, for one, has made a sensible suggestion. She says I ought to get some books on accounting. But-I don't know. I'm afraid it would take me so long to learn anything that it would be too late to help. And, anyway, I've got to write at night. I told Mom I would and I can't let her down. She's already making over her old suit to go back and see Pop in. I don't know what she'll do after she sees him, but-
    The hell-the bad part about it is that I can't quit. There was a young fellow over in one of the other plants who had a grudge against his foreman. He thought a good way of getting even would be to change the labels on a number of the parts' cribs. He did it, and then he quit. And three months later the FBI picked him up on the East Coast. I don't think they'll be too hard on him because he comes from a good Republican family, and his father's a Legionnaire. But me- Oh, good God Almighty! The stuff I've written; my friends and associates; the car I came out here in. If I mess things up- or if things get messed up where I am-what'll it look like?
    Don't tell me.
    I've studied and I've thought and I've worn a path in the concrete sidewalk around our house from walking at night. And still I don't know what to do. Jesus, I don't know-
    If I could just calm down. If I could just do that. And I have tried, and you see how it turns out. I used to work as a posting-clerk for a seed and nursery company. When our