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"You men here are an electing body right? You own this great plant and company, top to bottom right? You should all be rich, because Robling could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich. Only the fat ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how you can be rich." They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly, Walter Towne was talking their language.
Everyone who owned stock in Robling Titanium was automatically a member of the board of directors, with Torkleson as chairman of the board. The stockholders numbered over ten thousand. They were all present. They were packed in from the wall to the stage, and hanging from the rafters. They overflowed into the corridors. They jammed the lobby.
Then they came back in an old, weatherbeaten 'copter which hovered over the plant entrance carrying a banner with a plaintive message: ROBLING TITANIUM UNFAIR TO MANAGEMENT. Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copter remained. The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering Towne to return to work.
Walter shook his head wearily. The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even infuriating, but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter. He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves, and tried vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept scooting his tie up under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he started up the Robling corridor toward the plant gate.
The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter with pity. "Mr. Torkleson will see you." Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome office. For an instant he felt a pang of nostalgia the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out across the long buildings of the Robling plant, the pine paneling, the broad expanse of desk "Well? Don't just stand there.
Yes, there would undoubtedly be repercussions many industries were having managerial troubles; but as for long term effects, it was difficult to say just at present. On the Robling production lines the workmen blinked at each other, and at their machines, and wondered vaguely what it was all about. Yet in all the upheaval, there was very little expression of surprise.
Why? Because Research and Development hasn't had any money for six years. What can two starved engineers and a second rate chemist drag out of an attic laboratory for competition in the titanium market?" Walter took a deep breath. "I've warned you time and again. Robling had built up accounts over the years with fine products and new models.
It'll tie the Robling office into granny knots, and scabs won't be able to get any more data out of the machines than Torkleson could. With a lawyer to handle injunctions, we've got them strapped." "For what?" asked the lawyer. Walter turned on him sharply. "For new contracts. Contracts to let us manage the company the way it should be managed.
The news hit the afternoon telecasts the following day. Headlines screamed: MANAGEMENT SABOTAGES ROBLING MACHINES OFFICE STRIKERS THREATEN LABOR ECONOMY ROBLING LOCK-IN CREATES PANDEMONIUM There was a long, indignant statement from Daniel P. Torkleson, condemning Towne and his followers for "flagrant violation of management contracts and illegal fouling of managerial processes."
"What were the blueprints for?" "Trash cans," said Bailey. "Pure titanium-steel trash cans." It took Robling Titanium approximately two days to convert its entire production line to titanium-steel trash cans. With the total resources of the giant plant behind the effort, production was phenomenal. In two more days the available markets were glutted.