laaate!”
Mr. Strickman stepped out of his office and frowned. He put his hands behind his back. He tilted his head down a little while still looking at her. He'd learned these moves from a vid. “And why might that tardiness be?” Good word, tardiness. Made him look sharp. He loved this: an issue to attack, decisions to be made. It would make him look good to Mr. Roeg.
“Sir? Loris yesterday told me it would be on time.” She spun pointed at Loris, even though Loris's desk was four rows back. “Didn't you tell me that? You did.” Then a slow turn back to Mr. Strickman. “Three hours late, sir.” Every part of her face was indignant.
“It shall be dealt with.” He turned, actually on a heel, hands behind his back, returned to his office, and closed himself in.
Mr. Roeg awaited as Mr. Strickman had left him a few moments earlier, in the failed attempt to forestall Bethina. “Food product delivery,” he said. “It's late. People gotta eat, Mr. Roeg, as you well know.”
Mr. Roeg nodded, as much as his small twisted body would allow. He wore oversized, specially fitted police-blue shirts which were draped around his body and the top of his electrical conveyance. Nothing but his head had ever been seen, although everyone had seen what appeared to be knees or elbows or something jabbing around inside the loosely fitted shirt.
Mr. Roeg rarely said anything beyond his several grunts, periodic snorts, and a kind of nasal groan in a rising pitch which sounded like a questioning whine, so whenever he did that, Mr. Strickman rambled on at length about whatever he was mentioning at that moment. That, as far as Mr. Strickman knew, was Roeg's purpose — to listen to him randomly discourse about the overall operations of Acro D's food product processing. Roeg was checking on him, as he'd heard by rumor that he also did at the other acros.
Sometimes a message arrived advising Mr. Strickman to discuss subject x, y, and/or z. Today the note said, “1. Fooprod quality. 2. Office help.” And Mr. Strickman had made some notes, on which he had already begun to elaborate. Then Bethina interrupted.
He now continued: “Respectfully, late is not our fault. But once we get the fooprod here, we're very efficient. We can process almost a ton an hour, sir, and we produce the whole line of fooprod variations. Two kinds of meat, each with variations. Five lookalike root vegetables — the carrots are highly authentic, and orange. Fooprod pastas, and our fooprod bread recipe is getting better, sir.”
Grunt.
“Office help. Yes, sir, if we could step... uh, roll....”
Mr. Roeg's conveyance zipped forward. The office door opened in advance for him.
“...out here, Mr. Roeg. Yes. Well, there's Bethina, who you heard. She's the office manager, and the office works pretty good. That's Loris Clare she was talking to. She's quiet. Gets a lot done. Quiet.” He went on through Wallace Roscoe, Vera Kham, and Olson Dolor, and then interrupted himself. “You know, I don't think Loris over there has ever spoken to me. Loris?”
“Sir?” She didn't look startled. She looked ready.
“Could I speak to you?” He gestured for her to come over.
She crossed the office and stood in front of him at office attention.
Mr. Roeg hummed dully.
“Well?” Mr. Strickman said pleasantly to Loris.
“Well what?”
“Well... how are you doing today? Do you like it here?”
Loris looked from Mr. Strickman to Mr. Roeg and back. “Fine and yes,” she said.
Mr. Roeg snorted. At that point, Mr. Strickman started in surprise when he realized that Mr. Roeg's conveyance was whining into higher registers; an instant later, it shot off toward the office doors which opened not quite quickly enough and the conveyance double-banged through them and disappeared down the concourse.
After a polite pause, Loris returned to her desk. Bethina's eyes followed her.
Mr. Strickman broke into the full sweat of relief and bolted back into his office, hearing
Mr. Strickman stepped out of his office and frowned. He put his hands behind his back. He tilted his head down a little while still looking at her. He'd learned these moves from a vid. “And why might that tardiness be?” Good word, tardiness. Made him look sharp. He loved this: an issue to attack, decisions to be made. It would make him look good to Mr. Roeg.
“Sir? Loris yesterday told me it would be on time.” She spun pointed at Loris, even though Loris's desk was four rows back. “Didn't you tell me that? You did.” Then a slow turn back to Mr. Strickman. “Three hours late, sir.” Every part of her face was indignant.
“It shall be dealt with.” He turned, actually on a heel, hands behind his back, returned to his office, and closed himself in.
Mr. Roeg awaited as Mr. Strickman had left him a few moments earlier, in the failed attempt to forestall Bethina. “Food product delivery,” he said. “It's late. People gotta eat, Mr. Roeg, as you well know.”
Mr. Roeg nodded, as much as his small twisted body would allow. He wore oversized, specially fitted police-blue shirts which were draped around his body and the top of his electrical conveyance. Nothing but his head had ever been seen, although everyone had seen what appeared to be knees or elbows or something jabbing around inside the loosely fitted shirt.
Mr. Roeg rarely said anything beyond his several grunts, periodic snorts, and a kind of nasal groan in a rising pitch which sounded like a questioning whine, so whenever he did that, Mr. Strickman rambled on at length about whatever he was mentioning at that moment. That, as far as Mr. Strickman knew, was Roeg's purpose — to listen to him randomly discourse about the overall operations of Acro D's food product processing. Roeg was checking on him, as he'd heard by rumor that he also did at the other acros.
Sometimes a message arrived advising Mr. Strickman to discuss subject x, y, and/or z. Today the note said, “1. Fooprod quality. 2. Office help.” And Mr. Strickman had made some notes, on which he had already begun to elaborate. Then Bethina interrupted.
He now continued: “Respectfully, late is not our fault. But once we get the fooprod here, we're very efficient. We can process almost a ton an hour, sir, and we produce the whole line of fooprod variations. Two kinds of meat, each with variations. Five lookalike root vegetables — the carrots are highly authentic, and orange. Fooprod pastas, and our fooprod bread recipe is getting better, sir.”
Grunt.
“Office help. Yes, sir, if we could step... uh, roll....”
Mr. Roeg's conveyance zipped forward. The office door opened in advance for him.
“...out here, Mr. Roeg. Yes. Well, there's Bethina, who you heard. She's the office manager, and the office works pretty good. That's Loris Clare she was talking to. She's quiet. Gets a lot done. Quiet.” He went on through Wallace Roscoe, Vera Kham, and Olson Dolor, and then interrupted himself. “You know, I don't think Loris over there has ever spoken to me. Loris?”
“Sir?” She didn't look startled. She looked ready.
“Could I speak to you?” He gestured for her to come over.
She crossed the office and stood in front of him at office attention.
Mr. Roeg hummed dully.
“Well?” Mr. Strickman said pleasantly to Loris.
“Well what?”
“Well... how are you doing today? Do you like it here?”
Loris looked from Mr. Strickman to Mr. Roeg and back. “Fine and yes,” she said.
Mr. Roeg snorted. At that point, Mr. Strickman started in surprise when he realized that Mr. Roeg's conveyance was whining into higher registers; an instant later, it shot off toward the office doors which opened not quite quickly enough and the conveyance double-banged through them and disappeared down the concourse.
After a polite pause, Loris returned to her desk. Bethina's eyes followed her.
Mr. Strickman broke into the full sweat of relief and bolted back into his office, hearing
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