A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [28]
Meanwhile, Darnell saw to it that Thornton’s appearances were plentiful and important.
Darnell understood immediately that this was another page being opened to him in the now-and-future Thornton Tomtree Book of Revelations. Why is he trying to get people to adore him? Darnell wondered. What was his curse, his sin, his burden? He did not seem to return the warmth but always positioned himself as the wise father figure.
One night at the ultraliberal and prestigious 92nd Street Y in Manhattan, everything fell into place. About three or four minutes into his speech Thornton realized the audience was mesmerized. He crossed the enormous chasm that made an ordinary speaker into a speaker who absolutely controlled his listeners: an orator, an actor.
To step down from the lectern and shove his hands in his pockets “home style,” to wipe his glasses or remark he’d lost his place, to relieve drama with a funny quip, to drop a curse word.
Well, Thornton was a sound sleeper, but he didn’t sleep for three days after the 92nd Street Y speech. He was top-of-the-line, just a notch below Kissinger, as an attraction.
Expand they must. It was Darnell’s baby. The Pawtucket Central station would be a state-of-the-art home of two mainframes capable of transmitting and receiving tens of thousands of messages simultaneously.
A factory would make and assemble the computer and the encryption box. No employee worked on more than a fourth of a Growler. Another building would hold the research lab and the repair and installation division.
A final building was to be a modest four-story office.
Darnell brought Thornton all the blueprints, including some T3 had never seen.
“What the hell is this?” Thornton spread the last several sheets on his workbench. “Do I read this correctly? Employees Health and Recreation Center? This your idea of a whiz-bang knee slapper?”
“The architects,” Darnell answered, “and I hold no brief for architects, say that every progressive new factory has workout rooms, TV room, dance hall, and so forth and so forth.”
“This dispensary here looks like the Mass General Hospital.”
“Think in terms of the days we won’t lose to illness.”
“Bullshit! Quality restaurant, travel office, beach club, packaged tours…what! A nursery for preschool children!”
Thornton ripped the pages from their moorings, tore them into six parts, crumpled them and put them into his wastebasket and lit a match to it.
“I take it you’re not in full agreement,” Darnell noted.
“This is fucking, and I mean fucking, socialism. Baby-sitters! We’ll end up with a Russian labor force, complete with a portrait of Lenin in the Comrades Meeting Hall.”
“You do know why I’m pushing this,” Darnell said.
“No, unless it’s to be your last words on earth.”
“I had to fight you like hell to skim off the best personnel in the country. We have the best. But you can’t pay a man a six-figure salary to work in a junkyard. We have a golden opportunity to take future labor troubles off the table. The public relations aspects are dynamic. If they ever vote a union in here, if absenteeism doesn’t drop and production per worker doesn’t rise, I’ll kiss your ass in Macy’s window at the Thanksgiving Day Parade.”
“Not a single Republican CEO, which make up ninety percent of the CEOs worth their salt, will support this. You’re crazy if you think you can buy employee loyalty.”
They had both reached their side of the chasm. What had started out as one of their friendly debates had sunk quickly to the very reason of their being.
“Are you giving me an ultimatum, Darnell?”
“Yep.”
“And spend the rest of your life blackmailing me?”
“Only when you’re going to fuck up, Thornton. The investment now will be a pittance. Later? A week on the picket line will cost us quadruple. Goddammit! You’re still living in the Industrial Revolution.