"I could arrange it." Evans closed his eyes again.
"But...."
"Think, Brandon. As chief of the bureau, you won't have to answer to
anyone, not even the President. You've seen the mess the forms have
become. You can straighten it out."
"I don't think...."
"I'll have it put in writing that no one will bother you."
Brandon stared at the papers on his desk. For the first time they were
offering him a position he understood, one he could handle. It would
be a challenge. He would be in a position to eliminate three-quarters
of that damn paperwork. God knew how many like himself were gradually
getting snowed under each year.
Brandon played with the puppet. The silly face stared back at him with
a fixed, smiling expression. "Tell me, Evans," he asked idly. "Why so
much effort to locate me in a government position? I've had no special
training; this is the first offer I'm even qualified enough to accept."
He lifted the puppet face high, gazed at its face. "For ten years I've
been pestered."
Evans laughed as he pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. "You have
determination and will-power. We need that type of nature these days
more than ever." Evans' smile became wide. "And you will be one less
taxpayer we will have to worry about now. You'll be on our side."
Evans pushed all the forms from Brandon's desk with a sweep of his
tanned hand. "Forget all of that, Brandon, forever. No more taxes for
you. This is the last form you will have to sign. It appoints you
Secretary of Taxation, carte blanche."
"You had all this prepared?" Brandon said in amazement.
Evans' smile grew wider. "We knew you couldn't refuse an intelligent
offer, one where you would be useful."
"We!"
"The cabinet and myself."
Brandon picked up the pen, twisted it between his fingers. Evans was
right, of course. He would be useful. Half those damn forms were filled
with worthless nonsense that could easily be eliminated. Deductions
should be higher; small, independent business should be given a break.
And he could handle the job--that was important.
"Just sign on the bottom line," Evans said smoothly, pushing the broken
puppet out of the way.
The puppet fell to the floor and the head came off again. "Forget it,"
Evans said quickly.
Brandon studied the other man's face before he reached over and
picked up the little figure. It was a funny creature with a large,
silly-looking balloon nose. Brandon handled it tenderly, looking at it
thoughtfully. Finally he said: "My puppets. What happens to them?"
"I don't understand?"
"Children enjoy them," Brandon answered.
"I'm afraid you don't understand, Brandon," Evans shook his head. "I'm
offering you a full-time position. You can make them--as a hobby of
course--give them away, but you can't sell them. That would give you an
income again, mean more tax forms."
"But I couldn't hope to produce them for nothing," Brandon insisted.
"Not on a large scale, not on the fixed salary that you mentioned!"
"They aren't important, Brandon."
Brandon's lips became a firm, straight line. For the first time it
was clear to him why he had been so reluctant to give up his work. His
music had pleased people, just as his puppets were doing now. He was
getting satisfaction out of his work. He was giving people something
no one else seemed to be able to give them. Accepting a position he
couldn't handle, working for someone else had nothing to do with it....
"I've changed my mind," he said quietly.
"Changed your mind?" Evans stared at the pen Brandon had carefully laid
down on the desk; disbelief disfiguring his face. "You intend fighting
_that_ each year?" he pointed at the mad array of papers he had strewn
at Brandon's feet. "You're willing to risk not having any time at all
to work on your puppets against security and a life of ease?"
"I'm willing," Brandon answered. "Now I think you'd better leave
Mr....."
"Evans!"
"Mr. Evans. I might be able to finish these damn things before the
midnight deadline."
Evans opened his mouth but Brandon was already showing him the way to
the door, shoving something in his hand.
* * * * *
Evans climbed into his car and slumped down on the seat beside the
President. He looked at the new puppet Brandon had forced into his hand
before he could refuse.
"Is Brandon Secretary of Taxation?" the President asked hopefully.
Evans shook his head from side to side. What had gone wrong? They had
known Brandon was a stubborn man, that was why things were done as they
were. The offering of worthless positions had been a feint. He should
have grabbed at something he could handle. And the tax forms! That was
supposed to be the last straw. They had been loaded, prepared just for
Brandon, to break his resistence. Yet they had failed. Why?
"Did he suspect?" The President eyed Evans.
"I don't think so, Sir." Evans said. "I had the pen in his hand. He was
ready to sign. Then something went wrong. I can't understand it!"
The President looked the other way, found his eyes fastened on his own
reflection on the window. The cabinet had been wrong thinking it was a
job for a psychologist like Evans. Brandon was an individual, a decided
rarity in this day and age.
"I'm glad," the President said softly to the glass.
"What was that, Sir?"