“You fellows are swamping us with your production,” he said. “Engines, propellers, and airplanes are running out of our ears. The time has come to slow down.” I couldn’t resist a crack. “So it’s now ‘too much and too soon.’” Fred Rentschler looked serious. “Jim,” he began, “that remark of yours gives us the opening we have been waiting for. We have been worried about the same thing for some time, but with the criticism that has been leveled at us, we just didn’t think it was time to bring the matter to you.” He lighted a cigarette. “Of course you know,” he said, “that the aircraft industry has been blown up like a balloon. Our present output is all out of proportion to our own meager resources. If there should be a sudden cessation of hostilities, as in World War I, and that seems highly probable, and if no more preparation has been made for such an event than now exists, the whole aircraft industry will be wiped out in a matter of days. If any company could survive such a catastrophe, it would be United Aircraft, for we have been ultraconservative and taken every possible precaution against just this contingency, but I promise you even United would go out like a light.” Jim Forrestal sat silent, watching Fred as he went on. “We have made a quick study of our own situation,” he said, “and concluded that, upon the sudden termination of existing war contracts, which under the law occurs immediately upon the cessation of hostilities, we could not complete the mechanics of paying off our employees in time to prevent liquidating our resources. The pay roll is so big,” he added, “and the job of paying off is so complex, that the outgo would break us before we could finish the task.” He paused. “To sum up our position,” he concluded, “the disorderly reconversion that seems sure to follow this war will wipe us out even more completely than it did after the Armistice. In our opinion,” he added, “it’s up to you military fellows to do something about it.” Jim Forrestal nodded. “I go along with you,” he said, “up to the last statement. There is nothing the Army and Navy can do about this. We are public servants and, even under Franklin D. Roosevelt, subject to the people’s will. The only people that can do anything about it,” he added, “are you men. Your industry has got to carry its story to the public.” Again his telephone rang; again Jim handled the call. He turned back to us. “Your industry,” he went on, dead-pan, “is the choicest collection of cutthroat competitors in the country. Maybe it’s because pioneers still manage it. But if you pioneers expect to survive,” Jim went on, “the industry must unite and do battle for its existence. Frankly, I doubt if anyone can unite the aircraft industry, but someone has got to try it.” He glanced my way. “If anyone can do it,” he added, putting a finger on my knee, “you can.”