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THE TWONKY by LEWIS PADGETT * THE TURNOVER at Mideastern Radio was so great that Mickey Lloyd couldn�6�8t keep track of his men. It wasn�6�8t only the draft; employees kept quitting and going elsewhere, at a higher salary. So when the big-headed little man in overalls wandered vaguely out of a storeroom, Lloyd took one look at the brown dungaree suit—company provided—and said mildly, “The whistle blew half an hour ago. Hop to work.” “Work-k-k?” The man seemed to have trouble with the word. Drunk? Lloyd, in his capacity as foreman, couldn�6�8t permit that. He flipped away his cigarette, walked forward, and sniffed. No, it wasn�6�8t liquor. He peered at the badge on the man�6�8s overalls. “Two-oh-four, rn-mm. Are you new here?” “New. Huh?” The man rubbed a rising bump on his forehead. He was an odd-looking little chap, bald as a vacuum tube, with a pinched, pallid face and tiny eyes that held dazed wonder. “Come on, Joe. Wake up!” Lloyd was beginning to sound impatient. “You work here, don�6�8t you?” “Joe,” said the man thoughtfully. “Work. Yes, I work. I make them.” His words ran together oddly, as though he had a cleft palate. With another glance at the badge, Lloyd gripped Joe�6�8s arm and ran him through the assembly room. “Here�6�8s your place. Hop to it. Know what to do?” The other drew his scrawny body erect. “I am—expert,” he remarked. “Make them better than Ponthwank.” “0. K.,” Lloyd said. “Make �6�7em, then.” And he went away. The man called Joe hesitated, nursing the bruise on his head. The overalls caught his attention, and he examined them wonderingly. Where—oh, yes. They had been hanging in the room from which he had first emerged
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