At Peterson Field, east of Colorado Springs, he had trouble getting through the gate, even though it was now his domain, under lease. Of course he could have called Coster and gotten it straightened out at once, but he wanted to look around before seeing Coster. Fortunately the head guard knew him by sight; he got in and wandered around for an hour or more, a tn-colored badge pinned to his coat to give him freedom.
The machine shop was moderately busy, so was the foundry . . . but most of the shops were almost deserted. Harriman left the shops, went into the main engineering building. The drafting room and the loft were fairly active, as was the computation section. But there were unoccupied desks in the structures group and a churchlike quiet in the metals group and in the adjoining metallurgical laboratory. He was about to cross over into the chemicals and materials annex when Coster suddenly showed up.
“Mr. Harriman! I just heard you were here.”
“Spies everywhere,” remarked Harriman. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Not at all. Let’s go up to my office.”
Settled there a few moments later Harriman asked, “Well—how’s it going?”
Coster frowned. “All right, I guess.”
Harriman noted that the engineer’s desk baskets were piled high with papers which spilled over onto the desk. Before Harriman could answer, Coster’s desk phone lit up and a feminine voice said sweetly, “Mr. Coster— Mr. Morgenstern is calling.”
“Tell him I’m busy.”
After a short wait the girl answered in a troubled voice, “He says he’s just got to speak to you, sir.”
Coster looked annoyed. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Harriman—O.K., put him on.”
The girl was replaced by a man who said, “Oh there you are-what was the hold up? Look, Chief, we’re in a jam about these trucks. Every one of them that we leased needs an overhaul and now it turns out that the White Fleet company won’t do anything about it—they’re sticking to the fine print in the contract. Now the way I see it, we’d do better to cancel the contract and do business with Peak City Transport. They have a scheme that looks good to me. They guarantee to—”
“Take care of it,” snapped Coster. “You made the contract and you have authority to cancel. You know that.”
“Yes, but Chief, I figured this would be something you would want to pass on personally. It involves policy and—”
“Take care of it! I don’t give a damn what you do as long as we have transportation when we need it.” He switched off.
“Who is that man?” inquired Harriman.
“Who? Oh, that’s Morgenstern, Claude Morgenstem.”
“Not his name—what does he do?”
“He’s one of my assistants—buildings, grounds, and transportation.”
“Fire him!”
Coster looked stubborn. Before he could answer a secretary came in and stood insistently at his elbow with a sheaf of papers. He frowned, initialed them, and sent her out.
“Oh, I don’t mean that as an order,” Harriman added, “but I do mean it as serious advice. I won’t give orders in your backyard,—but will you listen to a few minutes of advice?”
“Naturally,” Coster agreed stiffly.
“Mmm . . . this your first job as top boss?”
Coster hesitated, then admitted it.
“I hired you on Ferguson’s belief that you were the engineer most likely to build a successful Moon ship. I’ve had no reason to change my mind. But top administration ain’t engineering, and maybe I can show you a few tricks there, if you’ll let me.” He waited. “I’m not criticizing,” he added. “Top bossing is like sex; until you’ve had it, you don’t know about it.” Harriman had the mental reservation that if the boy would not take advice, he would suddenly be out of a job, whether Ferguson liked it or not.
Coster drummed on his desk. “I don’t know what’s wrong and that’s a fact. It seems as if I can’t turn anything over to anybody and have it done properly. I feel as if I were swimming in quicksand.”
“Done much engineering lately?”
“I try to.” Coster waved at another desk in the corner. “I work there, late at night.”