No, not Ftaeml’s fault. . . his own! He knew that he should not harbor race prejudice, not in this job. He was aware intellectually that he himself was relatively safe from persecution that could arise from differences of skin and hair and facial contour for the one reason that weird creatures such as Dr. Ftaeml had made the differences between breeds of men seem less important.
Still, there it was. . . he hated Ftaeml’s very shadow. He could not help it.
If the so-and-so would wear a turban, it would help. . . instead of walking around with those dirty snakes on his head wiggling like a can of worms. But oh no! the Rargyllians were proud of them. There was a suggestion in their manner that anyone without them was not quite human.
Come now! . . . Ftaeml was a decent chap. He made a note to invite Ftaeml to dinner, not put it off any longer. After all, he would make certain of deep-hypnotic preparation; the dinner need not be difficult. But his ulcer gave a fresh twinge at the thought.
Kiku did not hold it against the Rargyllian that he had dropped an impossible problem in the department’s tired lap; impossible problems were routine. It was just. . . well, why didn’t the monster get a haircut?
The vision of the Chesterfieldian Dr. Ftaeml with a shingle cut, his scalp all lumps and bumps, enabled Mr. Kiku to smile; he resumed work feeling better. The next item was a brief of a field report. . . oh yes! Sergei Greenberg. Good boy, Sergei. He was reaching for his pen to approve the recommendation even before he had finished reading it.
Instead of signing, he stared for almost half a second, then punched a button. “Files! Send up the full report of Mr. Greenberg’s field job, the one he got back from a few days ago.”
“Do you have the reference number, sir?”
“That intervention matter. . . you find it. Wait it’s, uh, Rt0411, dated Saturday. I want it right now.”
He had only time to dispose of half a dozen items when, seconds later, the delivery tube went thwong! and a tiny cylinder popped out on his desk. He stuck it into his reading machine and relaxed, with his right thumb resting on a pressure plate to control the speed with which the print fled across the screen.
In less than seven minutes he had zipped through not only a full transcript of the trial but also Greenberg’s report of all else that had happened. Mr. Kiku could read at least two thousand words a minute with the aid of a machine; oral recordings and personal interviews he regarded as time wasters. But when the machine clicked off he decided on an oral report, He leaned to his interoffice communicator and flipped a switch. “Greenberg.”
Greenberg looked up from his desk. “Howdy, boss.”
“Come here, please.” He switched off without politenesses.
Greenberg decided that the bossman’s stomach must be bothering him again. But it was too late to find some urgent business outside the departmental building; he hurried upstairs and reported with his usual cheery grin. “Howdy, Chief.”
“Morning. I’ve been reading your intervention report.”
“So?”
“How old are you, Greenberg?”
“Eh? Thirty-seven.”
“Hmm. What is your present rank?”
“Sir? Diplomatic officer second class. . . acting first.”
What the deuce? Uncle Henry knew the answers. . . he probably knew what size shoes he wore.
“Old enough to have sense,” Kiku mused. “Rank enough to be assigned as ambassador. . . or executive deputy to a politically-appointed ambassador. Sergei, how come you are so confounded stupid?”
Greenberg’s jaw muscles clamped but he said nothing.
“Well?”
“Sir,” Greenberg answered icily, “you are older and more experienced than I am. May I ask why you are so confounded rude?”
Mr. Kiku’s mouth twitched but he did not smile. “A fair question. My psychiatrist tells me that it is because I am an anarchist in the wrong job. Now sit down and we’ll discuss why you are so thick-headed. Cigarettes in the chair arm.” Greenberg sat down, discovered that he did not have a light, and asked for one.