Joe gave a deprecating laugh. "Why do you always think there's trouble? The guy
wanted to chat with me -- he likes me, wants to get to know me. His name is
Woodrow, he's in charge of a whole operations division, and he was interested in
what I thought of some of his plans." He stopped and waited for George to be
impressed.
George knew what the pause was for. "That's very good. You must be doing a good
job for your Lead to mention you to him."
"That little prick? He hates my guts. Woodrow's building a special operations
unit out of lateral thinkers -- he wants new blood, creativity. He says I have a
unique perspective."
"Did you talk to Orville?" Orville was the soft one who'd brought them from
their father's shack to the Island, and he was their mentor and advocate inside
its Byzantine politics. Bill had confided to George that he suspected Orville
was of a different species from the soft ones -- he certainly seemed to know
more about George's kind than a soft one had any business knowing.
Joe tore a hunk from the carcass on the rickety kitchen table and stuffed it
into his mouth. Around it, he mumbled something that might have been yes and
might have been no. It was Joe's favorite stratagem, and it was responsible for
the round belly that bulged out beneath his skinny chest.
Joe tore away more than half of the meat and made for the door. "Woodrow wants
to meet with me again this morning. Don't wait up for me tonight!" He left the
cottage and set off toward the tram-stop.