alloy, I suppose.”
“Hmm…seems to like a bit of roughage in its diet. Perhaps it has a craw like a bird.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“What did the Chief do next?”
“Nothing as yet. I asked O’Farrell to impress on Dreiser that he was likely to end up in a penal colony thirty light-years from Westville if he persisted in bucking the department. So he is waiting and trying to figure out his problem. His latest notion is to cast Lummox in concrete and let him die at his own convenience. But O’Farrell put the nix on that one—inhumane.”
“So Lummox is still in the reservoir, waiting for us to act, eh?”
“I believe so, sir. He was yesterday.”
“Well, be can wait there, I suppose, until other action can be taken.” Mr. Kiku picked up Greenberg’s shortform report and recommendation.
Greenberg said, “I take it that you are overruling me, sir?”
“No. What gave you that idea?” He signed the order permitting the destruction of Lummox and let it be swallowed by the outgoing basket. “I don’t reverse a man’s decision without firing him…and I have another job for you.”
“Oh.” Greenberg felt a twinge of compassion; he had been expecting, with relief, that the chief would reprieve Lummox’s death sentence. Well…too bad…but the beast was dangerous.
Mr. Kiku went on, “Are you afraid of snakes?”
“No. I rather like them.”
“Excellent! Though it’s a feeling I can’t imagine. I’ve always been deathly afraid of them. Once when I was a boy in Africa…never mind. Have you ever worked closely with Rargyllians? I don’t recall.”
Greenberg suddenly understood. “I used a Rargyllian interpreter in the Vega-VI affair. I get along all right with Rargyllians.”
“I wish I did. Sergei, I have some business which involves a Rargyllian interpreter, a Dr. Ftaeml. You may have heard of him.”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
“I’ll admit that, as Rargyllians go…” He made the noun sound like a swear word. “…Ftaeml is all right. But this involvement has the odor of trouble…and I find my own nose for trouble blanked out by this phobia of mine. So I’m putting you on as my assistant to sniff for me.”
“I thought you didn’t trust my nose, boss?”
“We’ll let the blind lead the blind, if you’ll forgive a switch in metaphor. Perhaps between us we’ll sniff it out.”
“Yes, sir. May I ask the nature of the assignment?”
“Well…” Before Mr. Kiku could answer, his secretary’s light flashed and her voice stated, “Your hypnotherapist is here, sir.”
The Under Secretary glanced at his clock and said, “Where does the time go?”…then to the communicator: “Put him in my dressing room. I’ll be in.” He continued to Greenberg, “Ftaeml will be here in thirty minutes. I can’t stop to talk, I’ve got to get braced for it. You’ll find what there is…little enough!…in my ‘pending-urgent’ file.” Mr. Kiku glanced at his incoming basket, which had filled to overflowing while they talked. “It won’t take five minutes. Spend the rest of the time clearing up that stack of waste paper. Sign my name and hold anything that you think I must see…but it had better be no more than half a dozen items, or I’ll send you back to Harvard!”
He got up hurriedly, while making a mental note to tell his secretary, from his dressing room, to note everything that went through in the next half hour and let him see it later…he wanted to see how the lad worked. Mr. Kiku was aware that he would die someday and he intended to see to it that Greenberg replaced him. In the meantime life should be as tough for the boy as possible.
The Under Secretary headed for his dressing room, the door ducked aside, contracted behind him; Greenberg was left alone. He was reaching for the pending urgent file when a paper dropped into the incoming basket just as the light on it blinked red and a buzzer sounded.
He picked up the paper, ran his eye down the middle
“Hmm…seems to like a bit of roughage in its diet. Perhaps it has a craw like a bird.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“What did the Chief do next?”
“Nothing as yet. I asked O’Farrell to impress on Dreiser that he was likely to end up in a penal colony thirty light-years from Westville if he persisted in bucking the department. So he is waiting and trying to figure out his problem. His latest notion is to cast Lummox in concrete and let him die at his own convenience. But O’Farrell put the nix on that one—inhumane.”
“So Lummox is still in the reservoir, waiting for us to act, eh?”
“I believe so, sir. He was yesterday.”
“Well, be can wait there, I suppose, until other action can be taken.” Mr. Kiku picked up Greenberg’s shortform report and recommendation.
Greenberg said, “I take it that you are overruling me, sir?”
“No. What gave you that idea?” He signed the order permitting the destruction of Lummox and let it be swallowed by the outgoing basket. “I don’t reverse a man’s decision without firing him…and I have another job for you.”
“Oh.” Greenberg felt a twinge of compassion; he had been expecting, with relief, that the chief would reprieve Lummox’s death sentence. Well…too bad…but the beast was dangerous.
Mr. Kiku went on, “Are you afraid of snakes?”
“No. I rather like them.”
“Excellent! Though it’s a feeling I can’t imagine. I’ve always been deathly afraid of them. Once when I was a boy in Africa…never mind. Have you ever worked closely with Rargyllians? I don’t recall.”
Greenberg suddenly understood. “I used a Rargyllian interpreter in the Vega-VI affair. I get along all right with Rargyllians.”
“I wish I did. Sergei, I have some business which involves a Rargyllian interpreter, a Dr. Ftaeml. You may have heard of him.”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
“I’ll admit that, as Rargyllians go…” He made the noun sound like a swear word. “…Ftaeml is all right. But this involvement has the odor of trouble…and I find my own nose for trouble blanked out by this phobia of mine. So I’m putting you on as my assistant to sniff for me.”
“I thought you didn’t trust my nose, boss?”
“We’ll let the blind lead the blind, if you’ll forgive a switch in metaphor. Perhaps between us we’ll sniff it out.”
“Yes, sir. May I ask the nature of the assignment?”
“Well…” Before Mr. Kiku could answer, his secretary’s light flashed and her voice stated, “Your hypnotherapist is here, sir.”
The Under Secretary glanced at his clock and said, “Where does the time go?”…then to the communicator: “Put him in my dressing room. I’ll be in.” He continued to Greenberg, “Ftaeml will be here in thirty minutes. I can’t stop to talk, I’ve got to get braced for it. You’ll find what there is…little enough!…in my ‘pending-urgent’ file.” Mr. Kiku glanced at his incoming basket, which had filled to overflowing while they talked. “It won’t take five minutes. Spend the rest of the time clearing up that stack of waste paper. Sign my name and hold anything that you think I must see…but it had better be no more than half a dozen items, or I’ll send you back to Harvard!”
He got up hurriedly, while making a mental note to tell his secretary, from his dressing room, to note everything that went through in the next half hour and let him see it later…he wanted to see how the lad worked. Mr. Kiku was aware that he would die someday and he intended to see to it that Greenberg replaced him. In the meantime life should be as tough for the boy as possible.
The Under Secretary headed for his dressing room, the door ducked aside, contracted behind him; Greenberg was left alone. He was reaching for the pending urgent file when a paper dropped into the incoming basket just as the light on it blinked red and a buzzer sounded.
He picked up the paper, ran his eye down the middle
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