ing dock and the truck drivers and the
machine shop and the machinists, was dulled slightly.

On either side of him as he paced rapidly across the room, were the rows
of light-oak desks which contained the kind of men he did not like:
fragile men, whether thin or fat, fragile just the same, in the eyes and
mouth, and pale with their fragility. They affected steel postures
behind those desks, but Cutter knew that the steel was synthetic, that
there was nothing in that mimicked look of alertness and virility but
posing. They were a breed he did not understand, because he had never
been a part of them, and so this time, the invisible but very real
quality of employer-employee relationship turned coldly brittle, like
frozen cellophane.

The sounds now, the clicking of typewriters, the sliding of file
drawers, the squeak of adjusted swivel chairs--all of it--irritated him,
rather than giving him inspiration, and so he hurried his way,
especially when he passed that one fellow with the sad, frightened eyes,
who touched his slim hands at the papers on his desk, like a cautious
fawn testing the soundness of the earth in front of him. What was his
name? Linden? God, Cutter thought, the epitome of the breed, this man:
sallow and slow and so hesitant that he appeared to be about to leap
from his chair at the slightest alarm.

Cutter broke his aloofness long enough to glare at the man, and Linden
turned his frightened eyes quickly to his desk and began shuffling his
papers nervously. Some day, Cutter promised himself, he was going to
stop in front of the man and shout, "Booo!" and scare the poor devil to
hell and back.

He pushed the glass doors that led to his own offices, and moving into
Lucile's ante-room restored his humor. Lucile, matronly yet quick and
youthfully spirited, smiled at him and met his eyes directly. Here was
some strength again, and he felt the full energy of his early-morning
drive returning fully. Lucile, behind her desk in this plain but
expensive reception room, reminded him of fast, hard efficiency, the
quality of accomplishment that he had dedicated himself to.

"Goddamned sweet morning, eh, Lucy?" he called.

"Beautiful, George," she said. She had called him by his first name for
years. He didn't mind, from her. Not many could do it, but those who
could, successfully, he respected.

"What's up first?" he asked, and she followed him into his own office.
It was a high-ceilinged room, with walls bare