Excerpts from: There Ain't No Justice, Just Us
A Proletarian Novel by Gregory Alan Norton
There Ain't No Justice, Just Us is the fictionalized account of real wildcat strike that took place in South Chicago in 1979 at a Lard Factory. Mexican and African American factory workers united together to fight the company, their corrupt union, the police, and others despite the fact that these two groups had frequently fought each other in the neighborhood prior to this strike. "The Dwarf" in the story refers to a real Chicago cop who has since been exposed as torturing many minority prisoners into "confessions." I like this part of the story because the women in the neighborhood supported the men and blocked a train from entering the factory. As a life-long factory worker myself, I was fascinated when I did the research for this novel, and got to talk to some of these working class heroes. Lots of the people involved had a real historical sense about this battle - first, that it was their turn in history to put up a fight, and second, so many of them had a sense that they were battling for a much better, democratic, working-class society of the future. I found it an honor and privilege to try to record their story.
The story begins with a corrupt union local that tampers with a contract vote. To avoid a strike, union officials and the company collude to stuff the ballot box with "yes" votes for a terrible contract. -- Gregory Alan Norton
From Chapter 7
Ken Williams (an African American shop floor leader -- G.N.) posted his open letter bright and early the morning of June 8. Neatly printed; it read:
"This is an appeal to all employees of Chicago Lard Corporation. As you know we were shafted by the union. On June 6 we were gather together to vote on the acceptance or rejection of a 3 yrs contract. Our so call union official fail to interpret the contract completely. The Voting procedure was most definitely a fraud. To my knowledge this meeting was supposed to take place on June 7. Our union steward knew all along what day the voting would take place but fail to advise us, (the employees) for reason I will not reveal at the present time.
"The use of psychology is most definitely in full play among our superiors toward us, but there are still a few of us who have the knowledge of its use. I make a plead to you to stand up for what you know is right. Its time to challenge these imperialistic minded higher up and put an end to this childish game.
Any question regarding the above said information will be answered."
Ken plastered the factory bulletin boards with the letter long before most of the people had shown up for first shift. We met in the early morning sunshine, out by the IC railroad tracks. It was going to be a hot day. The parking lot was dusty. At 7 A.M., we had 39 out of a total of 42 workers. Once again, technically, we'd gone on a wildcat strike because all the young guys on third shift were out in the parking lot instead of tending the machines in the factory. Only Joe Grabowski was noticeably absent.
Ken passed around additional photocopies of his letter. Juan Diaz agreed to translate the conversations. Compared to our other outdoor meeting, this one went very smoothly, probably because of the early hour and definitely because we were all in obvious agreement that we'd been screwed. It began to dawn on me that these guys were suddenly putting all the sadistic teasing and violent arguing behind them. The riffs between the Mexicans and African Americans began to disappear. The big cultural gap between the older African American workers who grew up in Dixie vs the younger ones who'd only known Chicago also appeared to be closing. People who characteristically wouldn't talk to each other except to annoy one another were now sharing a common cause. Suddenly, they were all in the same situation and the were all pissed. Harold Crown, Chicago Lard, and Local 55 of the Amalgamated Chicken Union had finally gone too far.
Swiftly, they agreed to strike unless another vote was taken. They set the strike date for Monday, June 12. Ken suggested electing a three-person leadership committee. Nobody argued. Juan Diaz nominated Robert Morales. He was unanimously elected. Early nominated Ken. He was unanimously elected. Engleman nominated me, and I, too, was unanimously elected.
By 8 A.M., we were in Crown's office. He looked tired and groggy. Characteristically, he wore a crisp short sleeve white shirt and solid black tie. I could tell he just wanted to fire all three of us, and it was with a great effort that he seemed to rein in his temper. We reminded him of our petition which virtually everyone except Joe Grabowski had signed demanding the revote.
He reminded us that he'd no control over "our" union and stuck to his contention that the whole thing was out of his hands. He reiterated that we had to honor a legally binding contract for the next three years.
Ken did most of the talking for us, and he insisted that we weren't going to put up with an obviously rigged vote.
Roberto didn't make any points of his own, but when Ken or I said something he liked, he pitched in and said, "That's right. That's what we all want." Crown kept telling us that our complaint was with our "own" union, not with him.
"Well, Mr. Crown, we'd appreciate it if you'd use your influence with 'our" union to get them to come down here and talk to us," I said.
Crown frowned at me, but agreed to do just that. I could tell Crown was developing an active distaste for me, probably similar to the one he'd developed over the years for Engleman. What apparently astonished Crown was my ability to get to the top of the shit list so quickly. I thought he actually blinked in surprise when I walked into this office. He obviously had anticipated John Engleman.
"You need to understand, Crown, that this is going to be your problem if we shut this factory down," Ken Williams said.
"I'll see what I can do as far as getting your union representatives down here. But I don't think I need to remind you that any labor action you may take would be strictly illegal. And if anyone walks off the job here, that person is going to be discharged fro the employ of the company. Am I making myself clear, gentlemen?"
"And if we don't get to vote on the contract again, we're going to shut this place DOWN. Am I making myself clear?" Ken said.
Crown put his hands up in front of his face palms out. "I think we're finished."
We marched out of the front office, the secretaries and bosses like Melvin watching us with open curiosity. We took the stairway that led to the filing line. In the noise, commotion, heat, and stench of the shop floor, I asked Ken what he thought. Roberto had already walked away to talk to a couple of forklift drivers about the results of the confrontation. Everyone was watching us talk.
"I think we're headed for a showdown."
The factory workers proceed to unite everyone, African American, Mexican, and the few white workers in the factory. When the company and union refuse to allow a fair vote on the contract, they call a strike against both the union and the company.
From Chapter 16
Not much happened around the plant Sunday. Our remote picket line looked very thinned out. When I woke up Sunday morning in Lexy's apartment, I deliberately headed back to my South Chicago apartment. I didn't want to hang around with Lexy all day, because I knew where that would lead to. Monday brought a lot of commercial bustle to the neighborhood. We found it virtually impossible to picket and obey the injunction. We wound up milling around the neighborhood and our morale began to sink as we watched scabs coming and going unmolested.
Some of the guys left the picket line when trucks arrived and pulled into the dock without a problem. The Illinois Central ran a train down the track and switched out a tank car.
Ken and I agreed that the train switch had been a hoax. Neither one of us thought that the tanker was full. Ken told me that he thought we were headed for problems.
"Two of the deodorizer operators are beginning to waffle on us. They want to go back. They're broke."
"How much longer do you think they'll stay out?"
"No telling. Crown phones them every night. He's offering them better pay, and better benefits than the others."
"He can't do that. It's a violation of the union contract."
"Union contract only provides for the minimum a company must provide. If a company offers somebody more, the union ain't gonna fight it. The rest of us have a grievance, then, for discrimination. But we have to go file our grievance and fight it through channels."
We held a very turbulent meeting in our union hall on Monday night. I noticed our numbers at our meetings were dwindling, too. People were losing hope. I knew we needed some kind of emotional boost, but I felt burnt out, completely weary of the protracted fight. I remained silent when Engleman got up to speak.
"You guys are chickenshit. You gotta beat up the scabs. You can't let them go in there and run the fucking factory."
"I don't see you jumpin' on anybody," said Earl.
"We all gotta do it together. Let's go out there tomorrow and kick some ass," said Engle-man.
Juan Diaz translated all that, but nobody, black or Mexican seemed eager to pick up on Engleman's challenge. Nobody wanted to meet the dwarf. Nobody wanted to get locked up down at 26th and California, in Cook County Jail.
Then Cecelia spoke out. She complained of inaccurate translations by Juan, and then proceeded to translate her own words. The Mexican workers didn't display much of a reaction when she asked that one of our Puerto Rican supporters do the translating. She asked for "better translations" whatever that meant. She put that to the vote in Spanish and they all agreed includ-ing Juan, who apparently was tired of translating. I wondered if he was trying to hide things from the other Mexican workers, or if he simply wasn't any good at translating. One thing was for cer-tain, he seemed happy to be out of the limelight.
I thought Cecelia had finished when she got the translating switched over, but she wasn't. She held the floor while Juan sat down and the young Puerto Rican guy came up to the front. "You men can't quit now. If you don't ignore this injunction, Crown is going to win. I'm ashamed of you all. Tomorrow, I'm going to go sit on those damn railroad tracks and keep the trains out. We can't allow the railroad to do anymore switching. Crown is shipping out every last once of product he's got stored in his warehouse. So, come on, now." Her voice reached a high pitched crescendo when she finished. She was genuinely angry at us.
Nobody knew what to make of that. Lexy told me later that she intended to come down to the factory Tuesday morning. She thought there was going to be trouble. I didn't know what to say to Cecelia. I wasn't sure if the injunction would apply to her or not. For sure she would lose her job, when she came out of hiding in the office and took a position on the picket line. We would lose our number one inside source on what was happening within the factory, and I hoped whatever boost we got on the picket lines would offset the loss of our spy.
Tuesday morning Cecelia was as good as her word. She didn't go into work that day. She told us some of the other Mexican secretaries wanted to "go on strike" with her, too, but Cecelia made them stay inside as our future conduits of information. The minute she appeared on the picket line, of course, she lost her job, because she wasn't in the union's "bargaining unit." Some of the guys who had abandoned the picket lines and had begun staying at home showed up after hearing about Cecelia's previous evening's threat.
Cecelia had brought two neighborhood women with her, one of whom had a baby and a toddler with her. Almost as if on cue, we heard an IC switch engine approaching from the north. Resolutely, Cecelia and the two women sat down on the IC tracks. The toddler sat next to her mother while she held the baby. It was probably the most astonishing thing any of us had ever seen. The women sat in the middle of the street with a sun umbrella over them. They could have been spending the day on a Lake Michigan beach. The train slowed and halted north of 91st Street. In a minute Harold Crown came storming out of the factory, followed by Melvin who was still limping along on crutches.
"What's the meaning of this," Crown yelled, sounding out of control, hysterical. Crown held a piece of paper in his hands. He was yelling incoherently, a lake breeze playing with his tie, occasionally whipping it up into his face. We started laughing when we realized he was reading and screaming the words of the injunction at the three women.
The spectacle drew our far flung "picket line" in close to the "no-go" zone, and the cops clustered in tighter as an instinctive response and in order to hear what was being said. At this point the workers were blocking the tracks north of where the women sat, in the middle of 91st Street. We started chanting, "Hell, no, we won't go."
Crown screamed at Cecelia, "You're fired."
"Fuck you, I don't care," Cecelia yelled back. Crown looked dumbstruck. He was unaccus-tomed to having his well mannered secretary shout profanities at him.
A grey haired cop wearing an officer's white hat approached Crown and the small group of women. He was puffing on a pipe. He said, "Can't we settle this with a discussion?"
"DISCUSSION? ARREST THEM. They're all in violation of a court order," Crown screamed. The cops moved in on us. They asked the women to move. They refused. They told the women if they didn't move they would be arrested. Crown urged the cops to proceed. The cop with the pipe talked into his radio and asked for some police women to come up front.
At that point we had clustered into the middle of the street directly behind the women. The cops stood in their line at arm's length from us. The confrontation had developed into the closest encounter we had yet as a group with the Chicago Police. When a Hispanic police woman arrived, the grey-haired pipe-smoking cop pointed to the young mother first. Apparently his think-ing was to remove the kids from ground zero first, because a lot of ugly exchanges were going on between the strikers and the cops.
The police woman grabbed the young mother by the armpit, planted her legs far apart, then hauled the young woman up. In order to grab her toddler's hand, the young mother slightly loosened her grip on her baby. The police woman immediately snatched the baby.
That provoked an angry response from our ranks. The distance between our two lines disappeared, and, in fact, some of the young black guys had somehow insinuated themselves between the police woman and her escape route.
"Give the baby to the father." I turned and saw Juan pushing forward a young first shift Mexican worker who worked on the mixers. "This is the father. Give the baby to the father." He repeated, sounding both reasonable and authoritative.
The guys started chanting, "Give up the baby. Give up the baby."
"I'm gonna put this little bastard in a juvenile home." The police woman yelled that in Spanish. So, most of us weren't positive about what was going on. But the Mexican workers all stepped up then, and I thought for sure we were headed for a big street fight. Juan yelled in English, "She says she's gonna put the baby in jail."
"No she's not, said the grey haired cop. He took the baby out of the police woman's arms and handed her to Juan, who promptly handed her to her father. The police woman acted plainly disgusted with the pipe smoker's liberalism, and hauled off the young mother to a waiting prisoner wagon.
The toddler wanted to follow her mother, but Juan wisely snatched her up, too, before the next police woman could do anything.
"What about this baby," John Graves yelled, "You motherfuckers gonna arrest her, too? You got cuffs small enough to fit the baby?"
"All right, old timer, that's enough for you. Are you trying to start a riot?" The pipe smoker pointed to John and two cops arrested him next. It had become clear to us whoever this guy pointed to got arrested next.
"You motherfuckers, turn me the fuck loose," John yelled as he was escorted toward another prisoner wagon. The pipe pointed to the other woman sitting next to Cecelia. The police women roughly hauled up the other young Mexican woman and shoved her in the direction of the waiting wagon.
"You come down and bail me, Earl. You hear me Earl, goddamnit? You come down and bail my ass," John yelled. We heard his plaintiff wails fade away over the police ranks as he was stuffed into the wagon.
The pipe pointed to Cecelia. The police women acted especially rough with Cecelia. One of the black police women viciously yanked Cecelia's long hair. It seemed to me that the police women were trying to live up to the brutal standards of the Chicago Police in front of the men. Those standards had been set in places like Haymarket Square, 118th and Burly during the Memorial Day Massacre, and in front of the Hilton Hotel on Michigan Avenue during the 1968 Chicago Democratic Convention.
"Hey, take it easy with her. She's not resisting." I yelled.
The pipe pointed to me next. "What?" I yelled. "What the fuck did I do?" Two cops muscled me right out of our ranks. They searched me before throwing me in with John. The cops had managed to bang John's head somehow. The back of his head was bloody, and he was a little woozy.
"Oh, man. Now what?" said John as he held his head on the wild ride down to the Fourth District station house. John acted completely despondent.
"We meet the dwarf," I responded.
They hauled us out of the wagon into a police parking lot surrounded by ten foot tall chain link fence which was topped off with three strands of concertina razor wire. I protested John's condition and demanded they take him to a hospital. The cops hustled us down a flight of cement stairs into the station house. Cecelia told me later that the women had been locked in an empty room. They cuffed me and John to a bench in the hallway. From the direction of the reception area I could catch snatches of Lexy's voice. John kept repeating over and over, "Oh, man. Now what." I wondered how hard he had hit his head. Eventually, the cops pulled us down to the receiving area.
Harold Crown, Don Hacker, and Lexy awaited us there. Crown and Hacker consulted with the cops for along time before eventually approaching Lexy. The cops informed Lexy that every-one had been booked for "disorderly conduct."
Lexy turned to me and said loudly, "They don't want to test the injunction."
"Just get us the hell outta here," said John Graves.
Hacker and Crown left. Lexy noted that they had set us up with a court appearance with the same judge who had issued the injunction. Lexy went to work with the cops and their moun-tain of paperwork. First she bailed the two Mexican women. The young mother walked out the front door just as her husband was walking in. They embraced and departed. Then Lexy bailed
Cecelia who waited with us. Then Lexy bailed me. But she couldn't bail John. John didn't have any identification on him. He claimed the cops had lifted his wallet when they pummeled him on the street.
Lexy and the cops went back and forth for well over an hour. Finally, sensing they had the upper hand, the cops hauled John off to the dungeon to meet the dwarf. "Get me outta here. Don't let 'em take me to Cook County," said John. I thought he sounded pretty upset. Lexy kept banging away at the paperwork, but the cops kept finding additional technical problems that prevented bailing him.
Finally, Lexy gave up and she, Cecelia, and I drove over to John's rented house in "the Bush" neighborhood, a Victorian slum that had been erected to house workers for U.S. Steel. We found the decrepit two story frame house without a problem. Lexy and Cecelia went in. They said John's wife wasn't very cooperative, but eventually did provide enough of the necessary documen-tation that Lexy needed. The wife didn't want to accompany us to our next stop, Chicago Police headquarters at 11th and State.
Lexy managed to get the paperwork in order after another couple of hours of bureaucratic run-arounds. They sent us back down to District 4 where we thought we would be able to bail John. We arrived back in South Chicago around sunset after fighting rush hour traffic. We were told that nobody stayed in the local lockup over night. They had already transferred their prison-ers to Cook Country Jail at 26th and California.
We drove over to the near southwest side where the jail is located and Lexy had at it with the bureaucrats again. This time we hit the wall. The best Lexy could do was set up a bail hearing in the morning. We drove back to South Chicago in a very despondent mood. Ken and most of the guys were still manning our "picket line." Nobody liked our report, although we made it clear that we had done everything we could.
We got the bad news in the morning. Lexy and I went to bail John, so we were the first to find out. I knew we had a problem right away when the cops escorted us out of the receiving area where we should have bailed John. Instead we were ushered into a luxuriant conference room where we met with some plain clothes cops who were obviously bigshots. They told us that John had committed suicide by hanging himself in his cell.
The cop investigators later fed us a story that John had been depressed over his debts and the divorce proceedings which his wife had apparently initiated. I was convinced they had mur-dered him. The rest of that day went by in a blur. When I got back to the picket line Ken and Earl and the guys just nodded when I told them what had happened. Apparently, most of them had somebody in their family or a friend who had experienced a similar fate. It was just another day at the office for them.
The united workers had to battle against the National Labor Relations Board, the union, the company, private security cops, the Chicago Police, railroad police, and all the court actions and injunctions those groups brought against them. They had a woman lawyer who volunteered her time to help them in those fights, but ultimately the battle always came down to - could they keep the factory shut down?
From Chapter 18
We heard a train coming down the IC tracks. The train and the cops arrived at about the same time. However, this time we only had fifteen workers on the picket line and perhaps the same number of friends and relatives, mainly Mexican people from the neighborhood. The cops arrayed well over 100 men against us. Curiously, for the first time, they were wearing full riot gear including helmets with visors, and special flak jackets that reminded me of the body protectors that baseball catchers and umpires wear. Some of them in the back ranks were fooling around with gas masks. Lots of them sported sawed-off 12 gauge pump shotguns.
Our ranks encompassed nearly blind great-grandmothers and children.
The train rolled up to the northern margin of 91st Street and stopped. The same old grizzled engineer who had been present the day we faced off, Tex, stepped down from the engine. It looked like he was wearing the same pair of greasy bib overalls, t-shirt, red bandana, and baseball cap he'd worn the day we'd first met him.
"Hello," he bellowed.
"Hello," we yelled back in unison.
"I see you still got your wildcatter going, eh?"
The police began pushing us back off the railroad tracks. They were polite and professional, but continually asked us to move. I didn't know who were dealing with this time, but it wasn't the labor detail. These guys looked more like a big SWAT team. Using their overpowering numbers they gradually forced us off the tracks. One of the cops signaled the engineer to move his train across the street and into the factory yard. Other cops professionally stopped traffic on 91st Street to permit the train's safe passage. Now nothing prevented the train from entering the factory yard.
The old engineer looked over the cops then yelled, "Up yours, copper," and he flipped off the cop with an obscene gesture. To say that the cop was completely taken aback would be an understatement. The engineer yelled at us as he mounted his engine and backed up his train, "As long as you're here, we won't be. As long as you got one picket out here, I ain't crossing no picket lines."
From Chapter 19
Once again we marched into the gigantic and preposterously architecturally imposing buildings of the Loop. The massively overbuild environment didn't provide a humanized landscape for us. It wasn't meant to. The place was built for those imperial citizens who own or operate it and to awe their social opponents. It's not supposed to provide a warm place for ragged bands of industrial workers to bring their complaints of injustice. The NLRB is located in the Federal Building, one of those imposing towers. They ran us through metal detectors at the door, one of the prices of maintaining an empire, then directed us to a row of swift elevators capable of depositing us high in the Loop sky in a matter of moments.
I knew we had problems as soon as we walked in the door at the NLRB. The white secretary acted spooked when we showed up and went to get her boss. I met our case manager in the corridor. Obviously middleclass and wearing a charcoal grey suit, around 30, he greeted us, informed us he was the officer of the day, and then attempted to segregate me from the others by summing me into an office.
I declined to follow him.
"But you're the one with the education, right?" he said.
"It's all of us or none of us," Ken said.
That exchange irrevocably set the tone of the meeting. We all crowded into a very small office. The officer of the day sat behind a desk, sweating, facing the rest of us, all African American or Mexican except me, who had packed into the room.
"We don't allow any smoking," he said. Then he just stared at us.
Uncomfortable with the long ensuing silence, Ken said, "We want to file a complaint."
"Go ahead." He continued sitting there, sweating, staring impassively at us.
Ken pulled out his notes and began recounting the story from the top. He told the officer of the day about the missing ballot box, the vote fraud, and the complicity of the union and company. Ken had carefully gone over the dates and times of days for each event which he methodically ticked off.
The guy listened with a condescending attitude and occasionally smirked when Ken reached points in the story when he indicated that he thought items of Federal labor law had been violated.
At one point, when Ken said the company had violated the Wagner Act, the kid said, "Practicing law without a license, are we?"
Ken stopped reading from his notes and held the guy's attention for a full minute with a silent eyeball deathgrip. Then he resumed as if nothing had transpired between the two of them.
Eventually, I noticed the guy wasn't taking notes. He just sat there impatiently pretending to listen to Ken while he tapped his fingers on the desk top. Undaunted, Ken continued to read our story to him to the very end.
When he's finished after nearly a half hour, the guy simply said, "You've got no case."
Tom Smith, an elderly African American man from the South, leaned forward and said, "Y'all got to be kidding me. What you mean, we don't have no case?"
"I mean, you've got no case."
Ken Williams slammed his open palm down on the guy's desk-top. The impact sent papers flying. Pointing into the guy's face, Ken yelled, "You've got a negative attitude, man."
The guy jumped up and stood in the doorway, "Stop this, or I'll call the police."
"What? You going to call the police on us?" Tom Smith stood up and faced the guy. He acted utterly astonished. Apparently, based on his conversations with some of his steelworker friends in South Chicago, he'd put all of his faith into the NLRB getting things straightened out. I thought of Lexy's warning to us. I wished we had her legal knowledge to throw into the fight that day. "You're a fucking honky," old Tom said, giving the kid his best shot.
The rest of us starting laughing hysterically. The only other emotional alternative would've been to jump on the guy and rip him up.
"I mean it. I'll call the police," the guy yelled into the room.
Nearly doubled over in laughter, Earl yelled back, "They already done called the fucking police. We don't care. You think we afraid of the motherfucking police? We already done seen more police than we ever knowed was around." Early was laughing so hard he couldn't continue his tirade.
Ken, who had been seething with anger, finally cracked a smile and started laughing too. "Come on brothers. We're done here." Ken lead us out. We all treated the officer of the day to our favorite obscenities as we filed past him and out the door.
(Ken's final letter:)
"With the 16 of us fired and the rest working under the old crooked contract we struck over, people ask me, was it all worth it? Even if the strike was won and we were back at work under a better contract, it is doubtful, unless we got backpay, that we would have made up the wages lost during the strike. So what good is a strike? I still think we did the right thing. Before the strike, company officials laughed at our strike threat saying, 'They'll never strike. They've never been able to get a strike together before. The Blacks and the Mexicans can't get together.' That's why they were so arrogant and obviously crooked. They had the union in their pocket and they thought that was what it took. Now they know better. We made the company take some heavy losses, and they are still to this day paying expensive lawyers to use the technicalities of the law to keep the truth from coming out. The people still working at Chicago Lard are going to refuse to take a lot of crap. The company knows it, too. Those who went back are in a much stronger position. The company knows it, too. The union is going to treat them with respect, now, too. Maybe we'll get a legal election of steward and do better on the next contract in order to spare them the embarrassment of another TV crew coming down to Chickenshit HQ (Ken refers to an action during the strike when they managed to persuade a TV news person to ask some questions in front of the union's HQ building) For those of us fired, we have learned some valuable lessons. None of us had ever been through anything like that before. Now we have. If we gotta do it again, we'll know better what to do.
"But there is one more reason whey the strike was important to all of us. If no one is willing to draw the line and say we will be pushed no more, then the conditions under which we work will simply get worse and worse. We did what we believed to be right and stoop up to the company, the union, the cops, the rent-a-pigs, the courts, the lawyers, the judges, the fucking U.S.A. government, and Labor Board, the Mafia, and the media. 41 of us stood off all of them for 19 days. We can be proud that we behaved like human beings rather than so many worms. For those who broke the strike by crawling on hands and knees, sniveling all the way back to the company, that's all they'll ever be, sniveling boot lickers and they can be ashamed of that the rest of their days. Remember, my brothers, the workers united, can never be defeated."
Greg's work can be viewed at his web site, www.gregoryalannorton.com, and may be ordered from him. In addition to his novel, Greg's work includes his short story collection, An Infinity of Days in the Psychotic Atomik Empire, which contains the excellent story, "Factory," published in Struggle not long ago.