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 and had just realized that it really was urgent when a similar light-and-buzzer combination showed at the interoffice communicator and its screen came to life;
Greenberg recognized the chief of the bureau of system liaison. “Boss?” the image said excitedly.
Greenberg touched the two-way switch. “Greenberg here,” he answered. “I’m keeping the chief’s chair warm for him. Your memo just came in, Stan. I’m reading it?
Ibañez looked annoyed. “Never mind that. Get me the boss.”
Greenberg hesitated. Ibañez’s problem was simple, but sticky. Ships from Venus were regularly granted pratique without delay, each ship’s doctor being a public health deputy. But the Ariel, already due at Port Libya, had suddenly been placed under quarantine by her doctor and was now waiting in a parking orbit. The Venerian foreign minister was aboard. . . most unfortunately, as Venus was expected to support Terra’s position against Mars in the impending triangular conference.