_Year after year they came back,
despite his constant refusals. And
still Brandon couldn't figure
out why he was so important...._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Brandon was looking at his desk again.
An artificial grin spread across the narrow face of the Secretary of
Interior who was watching him closely. The Secretary's pencil-thin
fingers continued to toy with the small, wood figure he was holding.
"Brandon," he tried to lie gracefully, "You're a card. A real card."
Brandon shifted his position, brought his attention back to the thin
man with the receding hairline. He couldn't, for the life of him,
remember anything humorous he had said or done. He was too tired to be
jovial. The past few days had sapped his strength. He was exhausted and
there were still two more interviews scheduled.
Good Lord, he thought. Two more! He found his eyes wandering back to
his desk. He would never finish the papers in time. That would mean a
severe penalty.
"Come now, Brandon. Admit it. You _know_ you want to work for us in
Interior."
"Right now I don't know anything," Brandon said wearily. "My head is
tired and clouded. I can't think straight." He rubbed his hand across
his forehead, wondering how much longer he would be able to continue to
say no to their requests. He had almost found himself agreeing with the
thin man a few moments ago. That wasn't good.
Brandon leaned back in the contour chair and let some of the strength
seep back into his outstretched legs. Each year at this time they would
begin to wander in with their strange, outlandish offers of positions
with the government. It was perplexing.
"Why me?" he asked suddenly. "Why in Interior? I know nothing about
such work?"
The thin man leaned foreward, "Because you are a good man, Brandon. And
we need good men these days. Government is big business and we want
the top positions filled with the best men we can get. Besides," the
Secretary laughed softly, "you're wasting your time playing with dolls."
"They aren't dolls!" Brandon said indignantly.
"So they aren't dolls."
"There is a difference," Brandon insisted. "You make it sound as if I'm
in my second childhood."
"All right. Puppets!" The thin man shifted in his chair. He ran his
lean fingers over the hand-painted figure he was holding in one hand.
"But you can see my point."
Brandon shook his head. That was it. He couldn't see the point. His
puppets were becoming world famous, the result of reviving the almost
lost art of hand carving. He was earning a fair living at it. He could
see no reason for a change.
"Think of the prestige if you come with us. You will be heading a
department of your own," the Secretary said.
Brandon wrinkled his brow, thinking of how his name was already
associated with his puppets. If only they would leave him alone, if
only there wasn't so much paper work waiting for him on his desk, he
would be able to spread out, expand, really have a going business. But
they had to keep pestering him with worthless offers that they knew he
couldn't handle, wasting his time, especially now when time was of the
essence. The paper work on his desk had to be completed by midnight. He
would never finish it now.
Brandon felt the beginning of a headache. Because of the paper work
he hadn't had time to touch a new puppet in months. Now these damn
interviews were keeping him from the desk work. It was a vicious circle
leading to ruin.
"You will be serving your Country, Brandon," the Secretary said
strongly. "Not fiddling with dolls."
"I told you...."