Lummox decided that it was time to act. He heaved to his feet.
John Thomas got no farther in his peroration than “The poor thing. . .” There were screams and shouts from outside; everybody in court turned to look. The noises got rapidly closer and Mr. Greenberg was just going to send the bailiff to find out about it when suddenly it became unnecessary. The door to the courtroom bulged, then burst off its hinges. The front end of Lummox came in, tearing away part of the wall, and ending with him wearing the door frame as a collar. He opened his mouth. “Johnnie!” he piped.
“Lummox!” cried his friend. “Stand still. Stay right where you are. Don’t move an inch!”
Of all the faces in the room, that of Special Commissioner Greenberg presented the most interesting mixed expression.
V. A Matter of Viewpoint
The Right Honorable Mr. Kiku, Under Secretary for Spatial Affairs, opened a desk drawer and looked over his collection of pills. There was no longer any doubt; his stomach ulcer was acting up again. He selected one and turned wearily back to his tasks.
He read an order from the departmental Bureau of Engineering grounding all Pelican-class interplanetary ships until certain modifications were accomplished. Mr. Kiku did not bother to study the attached engineering report, but signed approval, checked “EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY” and dropped the papers in the outgoing basket. Engineering safety in space was the responsibility of BuEng; Kiku himself knew nothing of engineering and did not wish to; he would back up the decisions of his chief engineer, or fire him and get another one.
But he realized glumly that the financial lords who owned the Pelican-class ships would soon be knocking the ear of the Secretary. . . and, shortly thereafter, the Secretary, out of his depth and embarrassed by the political power wielded by those fine gentlemen, would dump them in his lap.
He was beginning to have his doubts about this new Secretary; he was not shaping up.
The next item was for his information only and had been routed to him because of standing orders that anything concerning the Secretary must reach his desk, no matter how routine. This item appeared routine and unimportant: according to the synopsis an organization calling itself “The Friends of Lummox” and headed by a Mrs. Beulah Murgatroyd was demanding an audience with the Secretary of Spatial Affairs; they were being shunted to the Special Assistant Secretary (Public Relations).
Mr. Kiku read no farther. Wes Robbins would kiss them to death and neither he nor the Secretary would be disturbed. He amused himself with the idea of punishing the Secretary by inflicting Mrs. Murgatroyd on him, but it was merely a passing fantasy; the Secretary’s time must be reserved for really important cornerstone-layings, not wasted on crackpot societies. Any organization calling itself “The Friends of This or That” always consisted of someone with an axe to grind, plus the usual assortment of prominent custard heads and professional stuffed shirts. But such groups could be a nuisance. . . therefore never grant them the Danegeld they demanded.
He sent it to files and picked up a memorandum from BuEcon: a virus had got into the great yeast plant at St. Louis; the projection showed a possibility of protein shortage and more drastic rationing. Even starvation on Earth was no direct interest to Mr. Kiku. But he stared thoughtfully while the slide rule in his head worked a few figures, then he called as assistant. “Wong, have you seen BuEcon Ay0428?”
“Uh, I believe so, boss. The St. Louis yeast thing?”
“Yes. What have you don’t about it?”
“Er, nothing. Not my pidgin, I believe.”
“You believe, eh? Our out-stations are your business, aren’t they? Look over your shipping schedules for the next eighteen months, correlate with Ay0428, and project. You may have to buy Australian sheep. . . and actually get them into our possession. We can’t have our people going hungry because some moron in St Louis dropped his socks in a yeast vat.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Kiku turned back to work. He realized unhappily that he had been too brusque with Wong. His present frame of mind, he knew, was not Wong’s fault, but that of Dr. Ftaeml.
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