"Very."
"Excellent," Evans said "And the paper work. Is it worrying him?"
The thin man studied Evans. No, he didn't envy the man any longer.
Evans had no feelings; it was written on his face. "The paper work is
worrying him to death," he heard himself say.
"Wonderful!"
The Secretary became conscious of the small figure he was holding in
his hand. He had walked out with one of Brandon's creations! Suddenly,
he slammed it to the ground. The paint chipped and cracked. The small
head rolled loosely across the lawn. Evans looked at him queerly.
"I think _you_ need a rest," the young man said softly, unsmiling.
"Brandon is a good man. I hate to see him broken. He has a lot of
talent. But not for the work we're offering him. It isn't right,
grinding him into the dirt the way we are."
Evans leaned over, picked up the broken puppet. One arm was twisted at
an odd angle, the clown suit was torn and dirty. Evans tried to fit the
head back on the small body. Finally he succeeded.
He looked at the Secretary of Interior. His eyes seemed different. "I
have a position he can fill and do a good job. He won't refuse. I'm
sure." Evans walked away, toward Brandon's house, still holding the
broken figure.
* * * * *
Brandon stood on the veranda looking across his small estate, in the
direction of the city. The site of the government was located there.
Perhaps that was why he was so reluctant; he lived too close to it,
had it around him day in and day out. The Government was ubiquitous,
omnipresent and omnipotent. It dominated every conversation, every
business, every life from birth to death. Lately it even seemed that
every one he came in contact with held a position with some agency
connected with the government.
"Mr. Brandon!"
"I know," he answered without turning. "You're from Labor."
"We've never met!"
Brandon turned and took in the lean individual who called himself
Evans. Quite different from the one who had called last year. That one
had been old and grumpy. Brandon's lips parted: "I assumed. All the
other departments have been here except Revenue. I didn't see Wilson
standing outside; I've heard he's out of the country. That leaves you."
"You could have been wrong, you know," Evans said.
"How?" Brandon asked without fully caring.
"Revenue has been split. There are two departments now. Revenue and
Taxation. Taxation handles income from taxpayers only."
"Big deal," Brandon said harshly, remembering his desk piled high with
papers.
"They say you are a stubborn man, Brandon."
"Stubborn?"
"Quite."
"Let's say I'm content with my lot."
"Are you really, Brandon?"
Brandon took in the young man's wide shoulders, the face that was
almost too young for such a responsible position. For just an instant
he had felt that this man would be different, that there might be a
challenge here. He could see he was wrong. The man was going to offer
him a position.
"Let's get to the point," he said hurriedly. "I'm happy making puppets
and I feel no need for a change."
"I'm glad you are happy, Mr. Brandon."
"Good. Then there is no need to continue. I refuse your offer." Brandon
was getting irritated. He didn't wait for an answer, he walked past
Evans, into the house.
He stood by his desk. The pile of papers was still resting there,
waiting for him. He had hoped, in some magical way, that they might
have vanished. A foolish thought, he knew.
"Income tax?" he heard Evans say from his shoulder.
Brandon nodded wearily. Evans reached over and picked up a form. He
frowned. "Complicated!"
"Each year it gets worse," Brandon said listlessly.
"I've never had to file one," Evans said.
Brandon lifted one eyebrow.
"Government employees never do. We are paid a flat sum and our
subsistance is taken care of. Calculators and computers adjust our
salary each year in proportion to the expense of the government. We
have been operating out of the red that way for years. It works out
fine."
Brandon ran his hands through the papers and forms. Why then did he
have to wade through this mess each year when it could be made so
simple? He had been staggering under the load.
"You're an independent, Brandon," Evans said. "You stay in business
for yourself because you dislike working for someone else. Isn't that
right?"
"You might say that."
Evans dangled a handful of papers in front of Brandon's brown eyes.
"You are working for someone else now. The tax department."
"Not exactly. I don't have to answer to anyone."