"He's on extended leave."
"What do you think we ought to do?"
"McWorther's World must be a critical area. And evidently we're going
to get what we want out of the deal, since the Potentate speaks of
concurrence with Western Cluster aims."
Impatiently, the undersecretary glanced out the window. Ganymede was
well out of the Jovian umbra now. If he didn't leave soon, he'd be late
for his conference with the commerce department on Farside Luna.
"All right, Mallston," he said. "Put McWorther's World on a Class A aid
schedule. That ought to hold the Potentate until Summerson gets back."
* * * * *
In the commercial section of Hub City, Rear-Sobucks and Company
occupied a monstrous building whose emblematic tip pierced the clouds.
On the two hundredth floor, the twenty-seventh vice-president
strode through the rail gate, tossed the secretary a
"don't-bother-to-announce-me" glance and went on into the inner office
of the twenty-sixth vice-president.
"Got something I thought you'd be interested in, V.R.," he told the
limp-faced man behind the desk. "There may be a promotion angle."
"What is it?" V.R. asked, not exactly gripping his chair with
anticipation.
The other placed the space-o-gram on the desk. "It's from an Ogarm
Netath, _prime minister_ of a place called Gauyuth-Six. He wants an
automatic bather."
V.R. extended a "so what?" glare.
"Don't you see? Big shots like that don't place personal orders. But
here's one who thinks so much of a Rear-Sobucks item that he forgets
all about convention."
"And so, Wheeler, you want to capitalize on his good name in some sort
of promotion gimmick," V.R. said through taut lips.