“Who are you? Are you lost?” he asked the stranger who was evidently his employee.
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, sir. Mark Thomason.” George offered his hand. “I was just looking for the break room,” he said. Looking sheepish at the mentat’s raised eyebrow, he explained, “They took the Snickers bars out of the vending machine on our floor. I was just hoping maybe somebody else’s machine still had some.”
“Sorry.” The boss obviously wasn’t. “All the snacks in ours are geared to the tastes of the Indowy-raised. As an Earther, I doubt you would like them. You are, however, welcome to try. If you walk to that end of the hall, turn the corner, and walk through the second door on the left, you will find what you are looking for,” he said.
His employee thanked him and walked towards the elevator bank, instead. The mentat dismissed the unimportant incident from his mind, continuing on his own intended course to speak with his assistant. He could have called her to him, but he wanted to stretch his legs. It had been a productive morning. The walk to the opposite corner office and back would combine a scheduled break with a useful task. Efficient.
As he walked in her door, Felini put down her AID. That she expected him was no surprise. A competent aide, she knew his daily schedule as well as he did.
“Prida, I need you to check with the travel office and verify that all the arrangements are as they should be for the Caribbean convention. Everything from the flight out on the afternoon of the eighth to the moment I arrive back at my apartment Sunday night. Last time, those cretins booked me in a hotel that had no pool, with a restaurant that was a carnivore’s delight but did nothing for me. I informed them of my dissatisfaction, but I have learned not to expect stupidity and incompetence to abate merely because of a complaint and a couple of terminations. It is, of course, a ridiculous waste of your time, but I need it,” he said.
“I’ll take care of everything.” His assistant was an absolute paragon of control, despite her minor idiosyncracies. She was an Earther. He expected no better in moral development, contenting himself with prodigious competence.
“Thank you. You have no idea how much I am looking forward to this convention. The keynote speaker, Alexandra Patel, will be presenting her paper on motivational strategies in postwar subsistence economies. I have read a small preview of her findings and they are fascinating. The implications for our work could be very significant. Oh, and note that I am not staying at the convention hotel. The Pearlbrook has self-contained chalets right on the beach. I am supposed to have one reserved, but please do verify it.” He turned and began the other half of his restful walk, knowing that he could trust his accommodations and amenities to be perfect.
The Personnel Department at the Institute for the Advancement of Human Welfare wasn’t aware of the details of new employee orientation as practiced by Prida Felini. Not that they could have done anything about it if they were. Personnel weenies worked away from the most sensitive company operations and management carefully shielded them from those realities. Personnel weenies had way too much opportunity to damage the company through the passive-aggressive retaliations that were so hard to detail and therefore compel against. Insufficiently specific compulsions tended to wear off unless reinforced regularly — another technical problem to solve before they could release a production model of the Aerfon Djigahr. One, teensy compulsion was unpleasant, but hardly something to make a federal case out of. It was, however, just the kind of thing to get their panties in a twist. Personnel weenies bored Prida to tears. Consequently, she tried to make her interactions with them as rare and brief as she could get away with.
The little man at her door now was one of the most boring people in that department. Granted, it was his job to see that suitable candidates were presented, and interviews scheduled, until positions were filled. And every minute she spent with the little bastard she couldn’t help thinking about all the fun she could be having if she wasn’t occupied dealing with him.
“What is it?” she said, not bothering to waste courtesy on such a nonentity.
“Excuse me, Ms. Felini. Sorry to interrupt you but in-processing is screaming for that reception clerk again. I’ve got a list of all the qualified applicants I can forward to you.” The underling didn’t meet her eyes, just stared at the ground looking stupid.
Screaming. She’d be screaming with boredom until she ditched the man. “Pick the most qualified candidate, schedule it. Hal,” she addressed her PDA, “send Personnel my schedule for the next month. The first or second week in December would be preferable, as I’m quite busy. It seems one is always busiest in the holiday season.” She stared out her virtual window, which was much more interesting than the weenie, and dismissed him. “That should be all you need. I need to get back to work. Shut the door on your way out.”
Samuel resisted the urge to hum as he trotted back down to the third floor and his own desk. Some favors were a joy to return, regardless of the risks. Besides, while he hadn’t taken to all that much that was Indowy, the Path ought to mean something to a mentat. The human mentat O’Neal would now have her second friend hired into the company. He couldn’t have cared less why Ms. O’Neal wanted these people hired, though he couldn’t help guessing a lot. Whatever it was would be nothing but bad for Ms. Felini and Mr. Winchon, the corrupt son of a bitch, and that was plenty good enough for him.
There was a big smile on his face as he placed the voice mail call to the planted candidate requesting an interview. He was having a very good day — so good a day that his coworkers had to tap him on the shoulder several times to ask that he stop whistling.
Cally O’Neal sat down on the winter-brown grass in front of the tractor Granpa was winterizing for one of her cousins. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her new, secondhand coat. “I’ve got an interview. December tenth. One of the clerk covers. Guess I’m the next one in,” she said.
“So the girlfriend draw did the trick, did it? Told you so.” He spat tobacco juice over his shoulder, simultaneously attempting to wipe the black grease off his hands with a shop towel. He only succeeded in moving it around, of course.
“This puts the whole show on for the tenth, if Michelle can get us the decoy device in time. Winchon’s scheduled for a conference in the Caribbean.” His granddaughter ignored the I-told-you-so and tried, in vain, to tuck the short, black strands of hair behind her ears. It blew into her eyes, and the dark hair was so much more distracting than her “natural” silver blond. After so many hair changes she should have been used to it. She sighed. On the job, yes. At home, no.
He nodded approvingly. “A Friday. Quitting time on a weekend is the fastest way to clear an office building I know of.”
“Want me to go fetch you some hot coffee?” she asked.
“I knew I raised you right. You know how I take it.”
“You sure you want a double shot of that rotgut you drink in it when you’re messing with tools?”
“I am not ‘messing with tools’ as you put it. I am conducting the precision operation of winterizing a valuable agricultural machine. You’re the one who volunteered to get me coffee, young’un, now git!”