It was going to be a bad day. As he pushed his way nervously through thecrowds toward the Exit Strip, Walter Towne turned the dismal prospectover and over in his mind. The potential gloominess of this particularday had descended upon him the instant the morning buzzer had gone off,making it even more tempting than usual just to roll over and forgetabout it all. Twenty minutes later, the water-douse came to drag him,drenched and gurgling, back to the cruel cold world. He had wolfed downhis morning Koffee-Kup with one eye on the clock and one eye on hisgrowing sense of impending crisis. And now, to make things just a trifleworse, he was going to be late again.He struggled doggedly across the rumbling Exit strip toward the plantentrance. After all, he told himself, why should he be so upset? He_was_ Vice President-in-Charge-of-Production of the Robling TitaniumCorporation. What could they do to him, really? He had rehearsed _his_part many times, squaring his thin shoulders, looking the union bossstraight in the eye and saying, "Now, see here, Torkleson--" But heknew, when the showdown came, that he wouldn't say any such thing. Andthis was the morning that the showdown would come.Oh, not because of the _lateness_. Of course Bailey, the shop steward,would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But this seemed hardlyworthy of concern this morning. The reports waiting on his desk werewhat worried him. The sales reports. The promotion-draw reports. Theroyalty reports. The anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his headwearily. The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps eveninfuriating, but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter.