Irritated, Benteley answered, "You're being teeped while you stand here. Verrick has them planted all over the place."
"I don't mind," Lori said wistfully. "A bed girl has nothing to conceal."
Benteley wasn't amused. "I don't like it. I've never been teeped in my life." He shrugged. "But I guess if I'm going to lock on here, I'll have to get used to it."
He moved toward the central desk, his i.d. and power cards ready. The line moved rapidly. A few moments later the MacMillan official accepted them, devoured them, and then addressed him peevishly. "All right, Ted Benteley. You may go in now."
"Well," Lori said wanly, "I guess I'll be seeing you. If you get locked on here..."
Benteley stubbed out his cigarette and turned toward the entrance of the inner offices. "I'll look you up," he murmured, scarcely aware of the girl. He pushed past the rows of waiting people, swept his briefcase tight against him, and stepped quickly through the door. The door snapped instantly shut behind him.
He was inside: it had begun.
A small middle-aged man with steel-rimmed glasses and a tiny waxed mustache was standing by the door watching him intently. "You're Benteley, are you?"
"That's right," Benteley answered. "I'm here to see Quizmaster Verrick."
"Why?"
"I'm looking for a class 8-8 position."
A girl pushed abruptly into the office. Ignoring Benteley, she said rapidly, "Well, it's over." She touched her temple. "See? Now are you satisfied?"
"Don't blame me," the small man said. "It's the law."
"The law!" The girl slid up onto the desk and shrugged her tangle of crimson hair back out of her eyes. She grabbed a package of cigarettes from the desk and lit up with shaky, nervous fingers. "Let's get the hell out of here, Peter. There's nothing of importance left."
"You know I'm staying," the small man said.
"You're a fool." The girl half turned as she noticed Benteley for the first time. Her green eyes flickered with surprise and interest. "Who are you?"
"Maybe you better come back some other time," the small man said to Benteley. "This isn't exactly the—"
"I didn't come this far to get the runaround," Benteley said hoarsely. "Where's Verrick?"
The girl eyed him curiously. "You want to see Reese? What are you selling?"
"I'm a biochemist," Benteley answered savagely. "I'm looking for a class 8-8 position."
A faint touch of amusement twisted the girl's red lips. "Is that so? Interesting..." She shrugged her bare shoulders. "Swear him on, Peter."
The small man hesitated. Reluctantly, he stuck out his hand. "I'm Peter Wakeman," he said to Benteley. "This girl is Eleanor Stevens. She's Verrick's private secretary."
It wasn't exactly what Benteley had expected. There was a momentary silence as the three of them appraised one another.
"The MacMillan sent him on in," Wakeman said presently.
There's an open call for 8-8 people. But I think Verrick has no need for more biochemists; he's got enough already."
"What do you know about it?" Eleanor Stevens demanded. "It's none of your business; you're not running personnel."
"I'm using common sense." Wakeman moved very deliberately between the girl and Benteley. "I'm sorry," he said to Benteley. "You're wasting your time here. Go to the Hill hiring offices—they're always buying and selling biochemists."
"I know," Benteley said. "I've worked for the Hill system since I was sixteen."
"Then what do you want here?" Eleanor asked.
"Oiseau-Lyre dropped me."
"Go over to Soong."
"I'm not working for any more Hills!" Benteley's voice lifted harshly. "I'm through with the Hills."
"Why?" Wakeman asked.
Benteley grunted angrily. "The Hills are corrupt. The whole system's decaying. It's up for sale to the highest bidder... and bidding's going on."
Wakeman pondered. "I don't see what that matters to you. You have your work; that's what you're supposed to be thinking about."
"For my time, skill, and loyalty I get money," Benteley agreed. "I have a clean white lab and the use of equipment that costs more to build than I'll earn in a lifetime. I get status-insurance and total protection. But I wonder what the end result of my work is. I wonder what it's finally put to. I wonder where it goes."
"Where does it go?" Eleanor asked.
"Down the rat hole! It doesn't help anybody."
"Whom should it help?"
Benteley struggled to answer. "I don't know. Somebody, somewhere. Don't you want your work to do some good? I stood the smell hanging around Oiseau-Lyre as long as possible. The Hills are supposed to be separate and independent economic units; actually they're shipments and expense padding and doctored tax returns. It goes deeper than that. You know the Hill slogan: SERVICE IS GOOD AND BETTER SERVICE IS BEST. That's a laugh! You think the Hills care about serving anybody? Instead of existing for the public good, they're parasites on the public."
"I never imagined the Hills were philanthropic organizations," Wakeman said dryly.
Benteley moved restlessly away from the two of them; they were watching him as if he were a public entertainer. Why did he get upset about the Hills? Playing classified serf to a Hill paid off; nobody had complained yet. _But he was complaining._ Maybe it was lack of realism on his part, an anachronistic survival the child-guidance clinic hadn't been able to shake out of him. Whatever it was, he had taken as much as he could stand.
"How do you know the Directorate is any better?" Wakeman asked. "You have a lot of illusions about it, I think."
"Let him swear on," Eleanor said indifferently. "If that's what he wants, give it to him."
Wakeman shook his head. "I won't swear him on."
"I will, then," the girl answered.
"You'll pardon me," Wakeman said. From the desk drawer he got a fifth of Scotch and poured himself a drink. "Anybody care to join me?"
"No, thanks," Eleanor said.
Benteley turned his back irritably. "What the hell is all this? Is this the way the Directorate is run?"
Wakeman smiled. "You see? Your illusions are being shattered. Stay where you are, Benteley. You don't know when you're well off."
Eleanor slid from the desk and hurried out of the room. She returned in a moment with the customary symbol-representation of the Quizmaster. "Come over here, Benteley. I'll accept your oath." She placed a small plastic flesh-colored bust of Reese Verrick in the center of the desk and turned briskly to Benteley. "Come on." As Benteley moved slowly toward the desk, she reached up and touched the cloth bag hanging from a string around his neck, the charm Lori had put there. "What kind of charm is that?" she asked him. She led him over beside her. "Tell me about it."
Benteley showed her the bit of magnetized steel and white powder. "Virgin's milk," he explained curtly.
"That's all you carry?" Eleanor indicated the array of charms dangling between her bare breasts. "I don't understand how people get by with only one charm." Her green eyes danced. "Maybe you don't get by. Maybe that's why you have bad luck."
"I have a high positive scale," Benteley began irritably. "And I have two other charms. Somebody gave me this."
"Oh?" She leaned close and examined it intently. "It looks like the kind of charm a woman would buy. Expensive, but a little too flashy."
"Is it true," Benteley asked her, "that Verrick doesn't carry any charms?"
"That's right," Wakeman spoke up. "He doesn't need them. When the bottle twitched him to One he was already class 6-3. Talk about luck—that man has it. He's risen all the way to the top, exactly as you see on the children's edutapes. Luck leaks out of his pores."