lacks elegance.”
Amalfi grinned tightly. “A heuristic criticism,” he said. “Go to the foot of the class, Mark, and think it over. Thus far they’ve out-thought us six ways for Sunday. We may be able to put your old plan into effect yet, but if it’s to work, we’ll have to provoke open conflict.”
“How?”
“Everybody here knows that there’s going to be a drastic change when we finish what we’re doing, but we’re the only ones who know exactly what we’re going to do. The ‘stiffs will have to stop us, whether they’ve got Dr. Beetle or not. So I’m forcing their hand. Moving Day is hereby advanced by one thousand hours.”
“What! I’m sorry, boss, but that’s flatly impossible.” Amalfi felt a rare spasm of anger. “That’s as may be,” he growled. “Nevertheless, spread it around; let the Hevians hear it. And just to prove that I’m not kidding, Mark, I’m turning the City Fathers back on at that time. If you’re not ready to spin by then, you may well swing instead.”
The click of the belt-switch to the “Off” position was unsatisfying. Amalfi would much have preferred to conclude the interview with something really final—a clash of cymbals, for instance. He swung suddenly on Miramon.
“What are you goggling at?”
The Hevian shut his mouth, flushing. “Your pardon. I was hoping to understand your instructions to your assistant, in the hope of being of some use. But you spoke in such incomprehensible terms that it sounded like a theological dispute. As for me, I never argue about politics or religion.” He turned on his heel and stamped off through the trees.