Blind Alley by Malcolm Jameson

Nothing was further from Mr Feathersmith's mind

than dealings with streamlined mid-20th century

witches or dickerings with the devil. But something had to be done. The world was fast going

to the bow-wows and he suffered from an overwhelming nostalgia for the days of his youth. His thoughts

constantly turned to Cliffordesville and the good old days when men were men and God was in his

heaven and all was right with the world. He hated modern women and the blatancy of the radio, that man in

the White House, the war. Mr. Feathersmith did not feel well. His customary grouch, which was

a byword throughout all the many properties of pyramidal Enterprises Incorporated,

had hit an all-time high.

The weather was rotten, the room too hot, business awful, and everyone around him a dope.

He loathed all mention of the war, which in his estimation had been bungled from the start.

He writhed and cursed whenever he thought of priorities, quotas, and taxes.

He frothed at the mouth at every new government regulation.

His plants were working night and day on colossal contracts that under any reasonable regime would double his wealth every six months.

But what could he expect, but a few paltry millions?

He jabbed savagely at a button on his desk, and before even the swiftest

footed of messengers could have responded, he was irritably rattling the hook of his telephone.

"'Well?' he snarled, as a tired, harassed voice answered.

"'Where's Paulson? Wake him up. I want him.'

Paulson popped into the room with an inquiring,

"'Yes, sir.'

...