"ACT is our motto. ACT is our password. ACT is our key to success. And why not? The Brains do the thinking. All of us put together couldn't think so effectively, so perfectly, so honestly as the Brains. They take the orders, designate raw materials, equipment, manpower. They schedule our work. They analyze our products. They analyze our people." Colihan trembled. "There's only one important function left to us. And that's ACT!" The President bowed his head and walked slowly back to his seat. He sat down, and with great fatigue evident in his voice, he concluded his polemic. "That's why we must have pep, gentlemen. Pep. Now--how do you spell it?" "P! E! P!" roared the department heads. The meeting was over. The department heads filed out. * * * * * Colihan's secretary placed the morning mail on his desk. There was a stack of memos at least an inch thick, and the Personnel Manager moaned at the sight of it. "Production report doesn't look too good," said Miss Blanche, crisply. "Bet we get a flood of aptitude cards from Morgan today. Grimswitch has sent over a couple. That makes eleven from him this month. He really has his problems." Colihan grunted. _He deserves them_, he thought. "How did the meeting go?" "Huh?" Colihan looked up. "Oh, fine, fine. Boss was in good voice, as usual." "I think there's an envelope from him in the stack." "What?" Colihan hoped that his concern wasn't visible. He riffled through the papers hurriedly, and came up with a neat white envelope engraved with the words: OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT. Miss Blanche watched him, frankly curious. "That will be all," he told her curtly. When she had left, he ripped the envelope open and read the contents. It was in Moss's own cramped handwriting, and it was a request for a three o'clock "man-to-man" talk. _Oh, Lord_, he thought. _Now it's going to happen._ * * * * * President Moss was eating an apple. He ate so greedily that the juice spilled over his chin. Sitting behind his massive oak desk, chair tilted back, apple juice dappling his whiskers, he looked so small and unformidable, that Colihan took heart. "Well, Ralph--how goes it?" _He called me Ralph_, thought Colihan cheerfully. _He's not such a bad old guy._ "Don't grow apples like they used to," the President said. "This hydroponic stuff can't touch the fruit we used to pick. Say, did you ever climb a real apple tree and knock 'em off the branches?" Colihan blinked. "No, sir." "Greatest thrill in the world. My father had an orchard in Kennebunkport. Apples by the million. Green apples. Sweet apples. Delicious. Spy. Baldwin." He sighed. "Something's gone out of our way of life, Ralph." _Why, he's just an old dear_, thought Colihan. He looked at the boss with new sympathy.