The worker with the Afro hairdo had his head close to Rollie's. "You want this here line stopped? I mean it, man."
"Oh, sure, sure." Rollie felt more like closing his eyes than getting involved in some stupid gabfest.
"Ain't kiddin'. See this." Out of sight of others nearby, the worker opened a fist he had been holding clenched. In his palm. was a black, four-inch steel bolt. "Hey, take it!"
"Why so?"
"Do like I say. Drop it there! He pointed to a groove in the concrete floor near their feet, housing the assembly line chain drive, an endless belt like a monstrous bicycle chain. The chain drive ran the length of the assembly line and back, impelling the partially completed cars along the line at even speed. At various points it sank underground, rose through extra floors above, passed through paint booths, inspection chambers, or simply changed direction. Whenever it did, the moving chain clanked over cog points.
What the hell, Rollie thought. Anything to pass the time, to help this day end sooner - even a bunch of nothing. He dropped the bolt into the chain drive.
Nothing happened except that the bolt moved forward down the line; in less than a minute it was out of sight. Only then was he aware of heads lifting around him, of faces - mostly black - grinning at his own. Puzzled, he sensed others waiting expectantly. For what?
The assembly line stopped. It stopped without warning, without sudden sound or jolting. The change was so unremarkable that it took several seconds before some, intent on work, were aware that the line was now stationary in front of them instead of passing by.
For perhaps ten seconds there was a lull. During it, the workers around Rollie were grinning even more broadly than before.
Then, bedlam. Alarm bells clanged. Urgent shouts resounded from forward on the line. Soon after, somewhere in the depths of the plant a siren wailed faintly, then increased in volume, growing nearer.
The other hands who had watched, surreptitiously, the exchange between Rollie and the worker with the Afro hairdo knew what had happened.
From Rollie Knight's work station the nearest chain drive cog point was a hundred yards forward on the line. Until that point, the bolt he had inserted in a link of the chain had moved uneventfully. But when it reached the cog, the bolt jammed hard between cog and chain, so that something had to give. The link broke. The chain drive parted. The assembly line stopped. Instantly, seven hundred workers were left idle, their wages at union scale continuing while they waited for the line to start again.
More seconds ticked away. The siren was nearer, louder, traveling fast.
In a wide aisle alongside the line, those on foot - supervisors, stock men, messengers and others - hastily moved clear. Other plant traffic, fork-lifts, power carryalls, executive buggies - pulled aside and stopped.
Hurtling around a bend in the building, a yellow truck with flashing red beacon swung into sight. It was a crash repair unit carrying a three-man crew with tools and welding gear. One drove, his foot against the floor; two others hung on, bracing themselves against welding cylinders in the rear. Forward on the line a foreman had arms upraised, signaling where the break had happened. The truck tore past Rollie Knight's work station - a blur of yellow, red, its siren at crescendo. It slowed, then stopped. The crew tumbled out.
In any car assembly plant an unscheduled line stoppage is an emergency, taking second place only to a fire. Every minute of line production lost equates a fortune in wages, administration, factory cost, none of which can ever be recovered. Expressed another way: when an assembly line is running it produces a new car roughly every fifty seconds. With an unplanned stoppage, the same amount of time means the full cost of a new car lost.
Thus the objective is to restart the line first, ask questions after.
The emergency crew, skilled in such contingencies, knew what to do. They located the chain drive break, brought the severed portions together.
Cutting free the broken link, they welded in another. Their truck had scarcely stopped before acetylene torches flared. The job was hasty. When necessary, repairmen improvised to get the line moving again. Later, when production halted for a shift change or meal break, the repair would be inspected, a more lasting job done.
One of the repair crew signaled to a foreman - Frank Parkland - connected by telephone with the nearest control point. "Start up!" The word was passed.
Power, which had been cut by circuit breaker, was reapplied. The chain drive clanked over cogs, this time smoothly. The line restarted. Seven hundred employees, most of them grateful for the respite, resumed work.
From the stoppage of the line to its restarting had occupied four minutes fifty-five seconds. Thus five and a half cars had been lost, or more than six thousand dollars.
Rollie Knight, though scared by now, was not sure what had happened.
He found out quickly.
The foreman, Frank Parkland - big-boned, broad-shouldered - came striding back along the line, his face set grimly. In his hand was a twisted four-inch bolt which one of the repair crew had given him..
He stopped, asking questions, holding up the mangled bolt. "It came from this section; had to. Some place here, between two sets of cogs. Who did it? Who saw it?"
Men shook their heads. Frank Parkland moved on, asking the questions over again.
When he came to the group decking engines, the young worker with the Afro hairdo was doubled up with laughter. Barely able to speak, he pointed to Rollie Knight. "There he is, boss! Saw him do it." Others at adjoining work stations were laughing with him.
Though Rollie was the target, he recognized, instinctively, no malice was involved. It was merely a joke, a diversion, a rambunctious prank. Who cared about consequences? Besides, the line had only stopped for minutes.
Rollie found himself grinning too, then caught Parkland's eye and froze.
The foreman glared. "You did it? You put this bolt in?"
Rollie's face betrayed him. His eyes showed white from sudden fear combined with weariness. For once, his outward cockiness was absent.
Parkland ordered, "Out!"
Rollie Knight moved from his position on the line. The foreman motioned a relief man to replace him.
"Number?"
Rollie repeated the Social Security number he had learned the day before.
Parkland asked his name and wrote it down also, his face remaining hard.
"You're new, aren't you?"
"Yeah." For Cri-sake! - it was always the same. Questions, gabbing, never an end. Even when Whitey kicked your ass, he dressed it up with bullshit.
"What you did was sabotage. You know the consequences?"
Rollie shrugged. He had no idea what "sabotage" meant, though he didn't like the sound of it. With the same resignation he had shown a few weeks earlier, he accepted that his job was gone. All that concerned him now was to wonder: What more could they throw at him? From the way this honky burned, he'd stir trouble if he could.
From behind Parkland, someone said, "Frank - Mr. Zaleski."
The foreman turned. He watched the approaching stocky figure of the assistant plant manager.
"What was it, Frank?"
"This, Matt." Parkland held up the twisted bolt.
"Deliberate?"
"I'm finding out." His tone said: Let me do it my way!
"Okay." Zaleski's eyes moved coolly over Rollie Knight. "But if it's sabotage, we throw the book. The union'll back us up, you know that. Let me have a report, Frank." He nodded and moved on.
Frank Parkland wasn't sure why he had held back in exposing the man in front of him as a saboteur. He could have done so, and fired him instantly; there would have been no repercussions. But momentarily it had all seemed too easy. The little, half-starved guy looked more a victim than a villain. Besides, someone who knew the score wouldn't leave himself that vulnerable.