The manager’s posture, never sloppy, improved noticeably at these words.
“I never thought of it that way,” he said.
“If, however, you still feel uncomfortable dealing directly with my employer,” the butler continued smoothly, “might I suggest you speak with one of his officers? Lieutenant Armstrong or Lieutenant Rembrandt? I notice you’re wearing one of the company’s wrist communicators. I’m sure Mother will be able to put you in touch with them or relay your message if they’re unavailable.”
Bombest glanced at the communicator on his wrist as if seeing it for the first time, then grimaced slightly.
“I suppose that’s the only way to handle it,” he said. “You know, Beeker, this is part of the problem.” He tapped the communicator with his forefinger. “When Mr. Phule contacted me for this job, I was prepared to work as a hotel manager, but at times I feel more like a secret agent. Between the wrist radios and the intrigue-undercover people I’m not supposed to admit knowing, not saying anything to the casino manager-I keep feeling I’ve gotten in over my head … in something I’d normally avoid like the plague.”
Beeker allowed himself a small smile.
“If it’s any comfort to you, sir, that feeling is not at all uncommon among those employed by Mr. Phule. He has a tendency to get carried away with things, and has the charisma to carry others right along with him. I’m sure you’ll do fine once the initial shock has worn off.”
“How do you do it?”
“Sir?”
“You’re a fairly ordinary guy, not at all like Mr. Phule or the uniformed fanatics he’s associating with. How do you do your job?”