"Where the hell were you? Never mind. Bring me the file on George
Fisher."
"George Fisher?" Miss Conway was in her favorite state of mind ...
confusion. "But he's dead, isn't he?"
Harry let out a deep anguished groan. "Yes, Miss Conway, he's dead.
That's why I want his file. That answer your question?"
"Yes, sir. Be there in a jiffy!"
Harry could tell she was bubbling over with smiles as she spoke. A few
more centuries would pass, he thought, before they manufactured another
broad as dumb as Miss Conway.
* * * * *
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked out the window. Across
the parade ground he could see the Army Weapons Development Center. He
had no idea what new bomb they might be working on behind those heavily
guarded fences. He didn't care.
He was only concerned with the people who worked there. The rest of Fort
Dickson used mostly Civil Service Personnel. But the barricaded security
jungle across the parade grounds was more particular about its hired
help. A person's record had to be spotless almost from the day of his
conception ... or a person could not even gain entrance.
Harry had never been inside Weapons Development. He had once been to
traffic court as a roaring juvenile eighteen years before. That was
enough to bar him from even visiting. He realized, though, that the army
couldn't afford to take chances.
Hiring new technicians required an arduous screening process. Harry
loathed it. He was thankful that the personnel at Weapons Development
were highly paid and usually permanent. He never had to hire more than
one person a year.
Miss Conway swept into the office and handed Harry the folder.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"Don't mention it, boss."
Harry called after her as she went back toward the reception room.
"Stay by your desk, will you? The government may need you."
A muffled giggle was her only response.
Miss Conway was a civil service employee. She had been Harry's secretary
for six months. Like most other civil service personnel, according to
Harry's way of thinking she was a tower of inefficiency. His chief
annoyance stemmed from the fact that the army had arbitrarily placed her
in his office. He had been given no choice in the matter. It was one
hell of a way to treat a personnel director, he thought.
He sat at his desk gloomily aware of the headaches he'd have to face in
his quest for George Fisher's replacement. He opened the folder and
glanced at the vital statistics.
Fisher, George--Age: 40--Weight: 160--Height: 5'9"--Eyes: Green--Hair:
None--Complexion: Light--Date of Employment: 10/7/58--Date of Departure:
4/12/59--Reason: Suicide--etc., etc. Harry yawned. Statistics bored him.
He turned to a page marked "Qualifications" and started reading. The
phrase "Education and experience in nuclear physics required," caught
his eye. The requirement was no surprise to him. But whenever he saw it
he took a few minutes off to indulge his curiosity. What _was_ the big
project at Weapons Development? He'd love to know. He wouldn't find out,
of course. And the inability to find out naturally gave his imagination
the widest latitude. His most persistent theory involved an atomic
powered rocket capable of knocking the Russians' manned satellites out
of space. The Russians were still ahead of everyone and their latest
satellites were heavily armed. As usual they were lording it over the
rest of the world. And the rest of the world had not come up with an
effective answer to this challenge.
Harry closed the folder. He glanced at a list of technical schools. He
would call each of them and ask them to submit a list of lab
technicians. He would also look over the field of technicians still left
in private enterprise.
The intercom buzzed.
"What is it, Miss Conway?"
"Miss Ralston is here."
"Who is Miss Ralston?"
"She has an appointment with you."
"An appointment!" Harry was baffled. "Who made it?"
"I did. I guess I forgot to tell you."
Harry closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Thank you, Miss Conway. Will
you step into my office for a moment?" He tried to control his mounting
anger.
She breezed into the office.
"Now, Miss Conway, will you please tell me who is this Miss Ralston?"
"She operates 'Ralston Personnel Consultants'. I think she wants to talk
to you about the replacement for George Fisher. You know, the one who
died."
"Yes, yes, I know. And _you_ know, Miss Conway, we don't do business
through agencies."
"Oh, Miss Ralston doesn't run an agency. She told me. Her business is
much more exclusive than that. She handles very highly specialized
people. That's the reason why ..."
"I know. That's why you gave her an appointment with me," said the
exasperated personnel director. "Well, you can go right back out and
tell her I've canceled the appointment. This is a security job we're
filling and ..."
* * * * *
Before Harry could utter another syllable his attention was drawn to the
doorway. The view to the outer office was blocked by a bundle of curves.
The most alluring female bombshell his eyes had ever beheld put
everything important out of his mind.
"I didn't realize you were being so inconvenienced, Mr. Payne. I'm
terribly sorry." Her eyes drooped. "I can take my business elsewhere."
Miss Ralston's voice was just above a half whisper. The words came out
warm and intoxicating.
"No, wait! Wait a minute, Miss Ralston." Harry was out of his chair and
at the door. He took her arm. "Who said anything about inconvenience?
Come in. Come in. That'll be all, Miss Conway. Thanks."
The secretary giggled and left. Miss Ralston sat down and lit a
cigarette. Harry noticed she was wearing a beige knit suit with a
neckline that spoke volumes. Every curve was in the right place. Every
movement had another movement all its own.
Harry knew she was bound to talk business and he knew there wasn't much
he could do for her in that direction. But at thirty-five, and eligible,
he just couldn't let this woman leave his office. Harry Payne was a
sucker for a gorgeous face. He knew it and he knew the gorgeous face
knew it.
"Tell me, Miss Ralston, when did my secretary arrange this appointment
for you?"
"I called yesterday."
Harry arched his eyebrows and smiled. "Yesterday? What prompted you to
call me?"
"You're looking for a laboratory technician, aren't you?"
"What gave you that idea?" he asked, not caring in the slightest what
gave it to her.
"I make it my business to comb the papers every day, Mr. Payne. I came
across the news of George Fisher's suicide and called you. Simple as
that."
"You don't waste any time."