No stupid waster, this. Grace Cormet saw a well-kempt man in his middle forties, flat-waisted, shrewd-eyed, hard but urbane. The cape of his formal morning clothes was thrown back with careful casual-ness. General Services, she said. Miss Cormet speaking.
Ah, Miss Cormet, he began, I wish to see your chief.
Chief of switchboard?
No, I wish to see the President of General Services.
Will you tell me what it is you wish? Perhaps I can help you.
Sorry, but I can't make explanations. I must see him, at once.
And General Services is sorry. Mr. Clare is a very busy man; it is impossible to see him without appointment and without explanation.
Are you recording?
Certainly.
Then please cease doing so.
Above the console, in sight of the client, she switched off the recorder. Underneath the desk she switched it back on again. General Services was sometimes asked to perform illegal acts; its confidential employees took no chances. He fished something out from the folds of his chemise and held it out to her. The stereo effect made it appear as if he were reaching right out through the screen.
Trained features masked her surprise it was the sigil of a planetary official, and the color of the badge was green.
I will arrange it, she said.
Very good. Can you meet me and conduct me in from the waiting room? In ten minutes?
I will be there, Mister...Mister But he had cut off.
Grace Cormet switched to the switchboard chief and called for relief. Then, with her board cut out of service, she removed the spool bearing the clandestine record of the interview, stared at it as if undecided, and after a moment, dipped it into an opening in the top of the desk where a strong magnetic field wiped the unfixed patterns from the soft metal.
A girl entered the booth from the rear. She was blonde, decorative, and looked slow and a little dull. She was neither. Okay, Grace, she said. Anything to turn over?
No. Clear board.
'S matter? Sick?
No. With no further explanation Grace left the booth, went on out past the other booths housing operators who handled unlisted services and into the large hall where the hundreds of catalogue operators worked. These had no such complex equipment as the booth which Grace had quitted. One enormous volume, a copy of the current price list of all of General Services' regular price-marked functions, and an ordinary look-and-listen enabled a catalogue operator to provide for the public almost anything the ordinary customer could wish for. If a call was beyond the scope of the catalogue it was transferred to the aristocrats of resourcefulness, such as Grace.
She took a short cut through the master files room, walked down an alleyway between dozens of chattering punched-card machines, and entered the foyer of that level. A pneumatic lift bounced her up to the level of the President's office. The President's receptionist did not stop her, nor, apparently, announce her. But Grace noted that the girl's hands were busy at the keys of her voder.
Switchboard operators do not walk into the office of the president of a billion-credit corporation. But General Services was not organized like any other business on the planet. It was a sui generis business in which special training was a commodity to be listed, bought, and sold, but general resourcefulness and a ready wit were all important. In its hierarchy Jay Clare, the president, came first, his handyman, Saunders Francis, stood second, and the couple of dozen operators, of which Grace was one, who took calls on the unlimited switchboard came immediately after. They, and the field operators who handled the most difficult unclassified commissions one group in fact, for the unlimited switchboard operators and the unlimited field operators swapped places indiscriminately.
After them came the tens of thousands of other employees spread over the planet, from the chief accountant, the head of the legal department, the chief clerk of the master files on down through the local managers, the catalogue operators to the last classified part time employee stenographers prepared to take dictation when and where ordered, gigolos ready to fill an empty place at a dinner, the man who rented both armadillos and trained fleas.
Grace Cormet walked into Mr. Clare's office. It was the only room hi the building not cluttered up with electro-mechanical recording and communicating equipment. It contained nothing but his desk (bare), a couple of chairs, and a stereo screen, which, when not in use, seemed to be Krantz' famous painting The Weeping Buddha. The original was in fact in the sub-basement, a thousand feet below.
Hello, Grace, he greeted her, and shoved a piece of paper at her. Tell me what you think of that. Sance says it's lousy. Saunders Francis turned his mild pop eyes from his chief to Grace Cormet, but neither confirmed nor denied the statement.
Miss Cormet read:
CAN YOU AFFORD IT?
Can You Afford GENERAL SERVICES?
Can You Afford NOT to have General Services?????
In this jet-speed age can you afford to go on wasting time doing your own shopping, paying bills yourself, taking care of your living compartment?
We'll spank the baby and feed the cat.
We'll rent you a house and buy your shoes.
We'll write to your mother-in-law and add up your check stubs.
No job too large; No job too small
and all amazingly Cheap!
GENERAL SERVICES
we also walk dogs
Dial H-U-R-R-Y U-P
P.S. WE ALSO WALK DOGS
Well? said Clare.
Sance is right. It smells.
Why?
Too logical. Too verbose. No drive.
What's your idea of an ad to catch the marginal market?
She thought a moment, then borrowed his stylus and wrote:
DO YOU WANT SOMEBODY MURDERED?
(Then don'tcall GENERAL SERVICES)
But for anyother job dial HURRY-UP It pays!
P.S. We also walk dogs.
Mmmm...well, maybe, Mr. Clare said cautiously. We'll try it. Sance, give this a type B coverage, two weeks, North America, and let me know how it takes. Francis put it away in his kit, still with no change in his mild expression. Now as I was saying
Chief, broke in Grace Cormet. I made an appointment for you in She glanced at her watchfinger. exactly two minutes and forty seconds. Government man.
Make him happy and send him away. I'm busy.
Green Badge.
He looked up sharply. Even Francis looked interested. So? Clare remarked. Got the interview transcript with you?
I wiped it.
You did? Well, perhaps you know best. I like your hunches. Bring him in.
She nodded thoughtfully and left.
She found her man just entering the public reception room and escorted him past half a dozen gates whose guardians would otherwise have demanded his identity and the nature of his business. When he was seated in Clare's office, he looked around. May I speak with you in private, Mr. Clare?
Mr. Francis is my right leg. You've already spoken to Miss Cormet.
Very well. He produced the green sigil again and held it out. No names are necessary just yet. I am sure of your discretion.
The President of General Services sat up impatiently. Let's get down to business. You are Pierre Beaumont, Chief of Protocol. Does the administration want a job done?
Beaumont was unperturbed by the change in pace. You know me. Very well. We'll get down to business. The government may want a job done. In any case our discussion must not be permitted to leak out
All of General Services relations are confidential.
This is not confidential; this is secret. He paused.
I understand you, agreed Clare. Go on.
You have an interesting organization here, Mr. Clare. I believe it is your boast that you will undertake any commission whatsoever for a price.
If it is legal.
Ah, yes, of course. But legal is a word capable of interpretation. I admired the way your company handled the outfitting of the Second Plutonian Expedition. Some of your methods were, ah, ingenious.