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Updated: June 14, 2025
I shall want to talk to you further when I've gone over this matter. "Now, get me back to the district offices. I want to get home, and you've work to do tonight." The report was a long one. Morely smiled to himself as he thought of the time it must have taken Bond to assemble the data and to make up his final draft.
He returned to his unusual conversation. "Set up a line in research and make up sufficient of those communicators to outfit the executive personnel of this district." "Yes, sir." "And give me delivery as soon as you possibly can. How soon will that be?" "We can do it in five days, sir." "Make it three. That's all." Morely took off his headband.
And he added the comment that the first model was as yet incomplete. Morely tossed the last sheet to his desk and leaned forward, tapping idly on the dull-finished plastic. Finally, he touched his call button and waited till the clerk came in. "You may send Mr. Bond in now," he directed. He picked up the section of the report dealing with Graham's past designs, and started scanning it.
Even Dolly spoke more than he that day, and with great pains drew out John Morely to tell how his prospects were brightening, and how since the first of May he had been foreman among his fellow-workmen, and how if things went moderately well with him he should have a better home than the little log-house for his wife and children before many months were over.
The landlord was a kind-hearted man. He could not but pity the shivering wretch. He stirred up the fire and set him a chair, and would gladly have given him a mug of hot drink to revive him, but he dared not. It would be like putting fire to a heap of flax, he knew. John Morely might be a madman or a frozen corpse to-morrow if he drank a single glass to-night.
But being, as has been said, vain and, in a small way, ambitious, it did come into his mind that to have such a man as this Morely living in his house a man who could not be trusted to take care of himself, a man who in his best days was only, as he thought, a common workman, earning daily wages by the labour of his hand, if did come into his mind that all this would not help him in his upward social way.
Wordlessly, he extracted a bulky folder, from which he took a small booklet. He held out the booklet to the guard. Morely held out a hand. "Never mind," he said. "Simply put him in custody. I'll turn this over to his leader myself." He had noted the cover design on the booklet. It was from District One Harwood's district. He flipped the cover open, ascertaining that there was no transfer notice.
But this conference would change things. Morely smiled slowly as he thought of possible ways of shading the odds. He looked ahead. Commuters were streaming in from the peninsula now, to make for the factory parking lots. His face tightened a little. Why, he wondered, had the Old Man decided to call the conference at this hour? He could have delayed a little, until commuter traffic was less heavy.
District Leader Howard Morely leaned back in his seat, to glance down at the bay. Idly, he allowed his gaze to wander over the expanse of water between the two blunt points of land, then he looked back at the skeletonlike spire which jutted upward from the green hills he had just passed over. He could remember when that ruin had been a support for one of the world's great bridges.
He'd merely consulted his Fiscal expert on a technical matter, and if DeVore had seen fit to use an illegal method of solving a problem, it was DeVore's responsibility alone. To be sure, Morely had been a little emphatic in his order, but that was simply because he was well aware of his Fiscal chief's disinclination to make exhaustive technical research.
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