ing into the hall. Perhaps it was coming here at all. Or coming alone. Or—
It didn't matter. It was much too late to consider what he should have done. Still, he should have let someone know, left some word that would guide others. Instead, his three years of work would be wasted, even as his life would be.
He could feel calm about it, then. He had bet his life, and lost.
Tredel had been out of the army six weeks, married to Edith for five of them, when he went back to the plant. It looked good to see that sign, over the new buildings: Tredel & Morton, Electronics.
And to see Morton again. Bruce Morton, middle-aged, balding, always serious, always nervous, always grateful to Jim Tredel for taking him in as partner when the company started. It was Morton who kept the business going, expanding it tremendously, while Tredel was in the army.
Morton showed him through the new plant, briefly, and then displayed the current line of products.
There was the fourteen tube hifidelity amplifier, the portable PA system, the new motor control, the intercom unit, the phonodoor, the—
That was what caught Tredel's attention. He picked up the small metal stamping, turning it over in his hand, curiously.
Morton bobbed his head at it, hurried to explain. "You know, Jim, during the war we got a lot of new machinery. Used some of it to do subcontract work. When it wasn't tied up with our own production, that is.
"We've been keeping on, to some extent. We don't have enough work of our own to keep the machines busy. This way we can keep the man power employed. There's money in it, too."
Tredel continued to stare at the stamping. His mind was working as it always did, always must, with detail parts, the way his father had taught him. He tried to visualize the assembly, not liking what he saw. Not liking it at all. Not understanding, thoroughly, but knowing he did not like it. There was menace, there, and something—some strangeness.
"What's it for?" He tried to ask it casually.
"Some toy manufacturer ... Triesting Company."
"Guess they converted over to war, too?"
"No ... or, yes, they did. Not armaments, though. They dropped toys to make some sort of special heating equipment for the Navy. Now they're back to toys exclusive."
Tredel hesitated. Then: "This is part of a toy?"
Morton bobbed his head. "Sure. That's all they make—toys. Now, here's our new television tuner—"
Tredel replaced the stamping reluctantly and followed Morton. His mind was still on Triesting. "Toys. Exclusive."
Yet, that stamping was part of no toy. Not the kind of toys children
