calling me every five minutes to ask if you've arrived."

"Tell him to simmer down," Manning said and passed on through the offices.

Outside the private office of the president, he hesitated until the door-scanner recognized him and the door swung open. He stepped inside and faced his employer.

At a mere thirty-eight, J. Barnaby Cruikshank had been the president and chief stockholder of a company that held a galactic-wide monopoly. It was true that he had inherited the company, but until his accession it had been a small outfit, insuring only humans. Under J. Barnaby, Greater Solarian had started issuing policies to cover every form of life in the galaxy. It had prospered and J. Barnaby was one of the richest and most influential men in the Federation.

J. Barnaby was a man of great urbanity, but it had already worn thin at the edges. His hair was mussed and his plastic sport coat ("Guaranteed not to wrinkle") was wrinkled.

"It's about time," he growled at the sight of his employee. "What did you do—walk back?"

Manning grinned as he dropped into a chair. "Some welcome," he said.

"Welcome!" said J. Barnaby, looking at the ceiling for moral support. "You've just had a six months vacation at my expense in the finest hospital."

"With hot and cold running nurses," added Manning. "But don't forget I was grievously wounded while conducting certain investigations." He carefully neglected to make it clear that the inquiry had been into the morals of a Ganymedean dancing girl rather than an insurance problem.

"I have my suspicions about that," J. Barnaby said darkly. With what must have been an inner struggle, he smoothed the anger from his face and replaced it with what he fondly imagined was a friendly smile. "Of course, we're glad to have you back, Manning, my boy. The thoughts of all of us here at Greater Solarian were with you during your months of pain and—"

"Don't overdo it," Manning said. "A little bit of your sympathy goes a long way. Now, what's the crisis?"

"Well, there is a small matter," J. Barnaby admitted. He paused, as if in doubt. "You sure you feel up to a little work?"

"If I didn't, you'd prop me up on crutches and send me out anyway. What is it?"

Cruikshank 

 Prev. P 3/42 next