Torkleson was waiting to see the shop steward when he came in next morning. The union boss's office was crowded with TV cameras, newsmen, and puzzled workmen. The floor was littered with piles of ominous-looking paper. Torkleson was shouting into a telephone, and three lawyers were shouting into Torkleson's ear. He spotted Bailey and waved him through the crowd into an inner office room. "Well? Did they get them fixed?" Bailey spread his hands nervously. "The electronics boys have been at it since yesterday afternoon. Practically had the machines apart on the floor." "I know that, stupid," Torkleson roared. "I ordered them there. Did they get the machines _fixed_?" "Uh--well, no, as a matter of fact--" "Well, _what's holding them up_?" Bailey's face was a study in misery. "The machines just go in circles. The circuits are locked. They just reverberate." "Then call American Electronics. Have them send down an expert crew." Bailey shook his head. "They won't come." "They _what_?" "They said thanks, but no thanks. They don't want their fingers in this pie at all." "Wait until I get O'Gilvy on the phone." "It won't do any good, sir. They've got their own management troubles. They're scared silly of a sympathy strike." The door burst open, and a lawyer stuck his head in. "What about those injunctions, Dan?" "Get them moving," Torkleson howled. "They'll start those machines again, or I'll have them in jail so fast--" He turned back to Bailey. "What about the production lines?" The shop steward's face lighted. "They slipped up, there. There was one program that hadn't been coded into the machines yet. Just a minor item, but it's a starter. We found it in Towne's desk, blueprints all ready, promotion all planned." "Good, good," Torkleson breathed. "I have a directors' meeting right now, have to get the workers quieted down a bit. You put the program through, and give those electronics men three more hours to unsnarl this knot, or we throw them out of the union." He started for the door. "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. Within two weeks, at a conservative estimate, there would be a titanium-steel trash can for every man, woman, child, and hound dog on the North American continent. The jet engines, structural steels, tubing, and other pre-strike products piled up in the freight yards, their routing slips and order requisitions tied up in the reverberating machines. But the machines continued to buzz and sputter.