Walter Franks sat in the director's office; his feet on the director's
desk. He was smoking one of the director's cigarettes. He was drinking
the director's liquor, filched shamelessly from the director's private
filing cabinet where it reposed in the drawer marked "S." Drawer "B"
would have given beer, but Walt preferred Scotch.
He leaned forward and dropped the director's cigarette into the
director's wastebasket and then he pressed the button on the desk and
looked up.
But it was not the director's secretary who entered. It was his
own, but that did not disturb Franks. He knew that the director's
ex-secretary was off on Mars enjoying a honeymoon with the director.
Jeanne entered and smiled. "Must you call me in here to witness you
wasting the company's time?" she asked in mock anger.
"Now look, Jeanne, this is what Channing does."
"No dice. You can't behave as Don Channing behaves. The reason is my
husband."
"I didn't call to have you sit on my lap. I want to know if the mail is
in."
"I thought so," she said. "And I brought it in with me. Anything more?"
"Not until you get a divorce," laughed Franks.
"You should live so long," she said with a smile. She stuck her tongue
out at him.
Walt thumbed his way through the mail, making notations on some, and
setting others aside for closer reading. He came to one and tossed it
across the desk at Jeanne. She took the message and read: