"Not unless I make an error," Brandon said stubbornly. "And I won't.
I'm becoming an expert on this. When a man spends one hundred days a
year working on these damn things he learns quite a bit. There will be
no errors."
"One hundred days!" Evans laughed. "Soon it'll be every day of the
year. Then where will you be?" He looked directly into Brandon's eyes.
"Can't you see? You're in the web already, working a third of the year
without compensation."
Evans pulled from his pocket the the broken puppet he had picked up
from the driveway outside Brandon's house. He laid it in front of
Brandon on the pile of income tax blanks. "Soon you'll be without
income; your business will deteriorate from lack of attention."
Brandon said nothing.
Evans moved to the contour chair and sat down. He closed his eyes.
"You've been out of circulation a long time, Brandon. The world is
changing. Government is big business, one of the largest, and it's
expanding. We need more men, good men."
Evans opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "You said you've
become an expert on forms. Would you consider taking a position as head
of the tax department?" he asked abruptly.