Final Weapon Part 11

He looked again at the small sc.r.a.p of paper which was clipped to the letter. On it was scrawled: "DeVore--See me--HRM."

For a moment, DeVore considered using his own mentacom, then he discarded the idea. To be sure, the leader had insisted that his subordinates use the devices for their own communications, and he'd cut Fixed Communications to the bone. But he still insisted on either communicator calls or personal contact when he wished to talk to any of his people. And he discouraged any but essential use of the communicator system, generally demanding that people come in to see him.

DeVore wrinkled his face disgustedly. It _was_ hard to communicate with the district leader by means of a headband. There was a repellent characteristic about the man's mental emanations, and he seemed to fail to comprehend nuances of meaning. Similes, he ignored completely.

Thoughts had to be completely and clearly detailed, then phrased into normal, basic wordage before he would acknowledge them. None of the short-cuts used by other members of the administrative staff seemed to work out in his case. He apparently didn't notice visualizations, and he never made one. His transmission was as stiff and labored as the type of communication he required from others--more so, if anything. DeVore scratched his neck.

"How," he asked himself, "does one define a telepathic monotone?"

There were a few others with whom DeVore had experienced similar difficulties, but most people, he had found, picked up meanings and concepts without difficulty--even seemed to antic.i.p.ate at times. And since the new induction mentacoms had come on the market, with the annoying contacts and headstraps removed, virtually everyone seemed to be either in possession of one of the devices, or about to get one. And, they were worn everywhere.

He smiled as he thought of the young father-to-be, who had bored through the evening traffic rush yesterday. The youngster had been so intent on getting his wife to the hospital that he'd probably failed to see half the s.h.i.+ps that clawed out of his way. And his visualization had been almost painfully clear. He'd probably be apologizing for weeks to everyone he contacted.

DeVore straightened in his chair. What would happen, he wondered, if the leader ever ran into one of those situations?

"Yipe!" he muttered. "What a row that would be."

He shrugged, got out of his chair, and walked out into the corridor.

"Better get it over with," he told himself.

As he approached the leader's door, it opened, and Ward Kirk came out.

He closed the door with a careful gentleness, then faced it for an instant. DeVore was conscious of a wave of hopeless fury, and a fleeting glimpse of Morely's face, framed by brilliant flame. Then, Kirk faced around and saw him.

"_Careful_," DeVore thought. "_You're broadcasting. He'll pick you up._"

Kirk grimaced and DeVore saw a faint image of a tyrannosaur, which reared up, jaws agape. Blood dripped from the human figure gripped in the creature's talons.

"_The old ... wouldn't understand if he did._"

DeVore grinned. "_See what you mean. Well, guess I'm the next victim._"

He stepped to the door and tapped.

"Come in."

Morely looked up as his Fiscal Chief entered, then swept some papers aside. "Well, what do _you_ want?"

DeVore held out the letter. "You wanted to see me, sir, about this." He placed the paper within the reach of his superior, who s.n.a.t.c.hed at it, held it up for a moment, then dropped it to his desk.

"Yes, I did. What can we do about it?"

"Why," DeVore spread his hands slightly, "we'll have to comply."

"That isn't what I meant, Idiot! How can we continue to receive the payments from Consolidated?"

"I don't think we can, sir. If Central Coordinating wants to put the device on a national basis, we can't do anything about it."

Morely looked down at the letter, then glared searchingly at DeVore.

"The way I read this," he declared, "they want to distribute manufacturing rights on the communicator to plants in other regions than this. Right?"

"Yes, sir."

"But they don't say anything about our continuing the Consolidated payments on an overwrite basis, for the sale of devices they may make.

Now, do they?"

"No, sir. But that's implied. In cases like this, Central always takes over all rights." DeVore hesitated. "I believe regulations--"

"I don't care what's implied, DeVore. And I don't care what you believe. All I see is what's in this letter. They want to distribute the manufacturing load, and I'm quite willing that they should. I want to continue receiving the payments from Consolidated. Now, you arrange it so that they're satisfied and I'm satisfied."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"But that'll mean Consolidated will have to pay double. We can't--"

"Don't say 'can't' to me!" Morely held up a hand angrily. "DeVore, I'm not going to tell you how to do this. I want it done. The details are your affair, and if I have to teach you your business, I'll get someone who can do things without having to have them spelled out to him." He leaned back, to glare at DeVore.

"Now, get on the job. I told you to make arrangements for me so that we will retain our payments from Consolidated. And I'm not interested in what arrangements you make with them, or what arrangements they make with Central. Is that a simple enough order for you to understand?"

"Yes, sir. I understand all right. But--"

"Good! I'm glad I managed to get at least one simple idea into your head." The spring in the chair tw.a.n.ged as Morely came forward, to poke his head at DeVore. "Now, get to work on it."

He jerked his head down for a quick look at the letter on his desk, then looked up again.

"And I'll expect a report from you by tonight that you've got the matter taken care of."

DeVore looked at his superior expressionless for a heartbeat. He had been given peculiar orders before, and he'd always managed to work out the problems involved. But this was the ultimate. This one seemed to be just plain illegal. And there was no point in arguing further. There was just the barest chance that there might be some legitimate way out. If he challenged the Old Man on an illegal order, he just might get his ears pinned back. He'd simply have to go back to his office and try to hunt out a technicality. He nodded.

"Yes, sir. I'll get on it immediately."

He saluted and started to leave the office. But he didn't make it.

"And, DeVore!"

The Fiscal chief halted abruptly, and turned.

"Sir?"

"I'm getting tired of the negative thinking you people seem to have fallen into lately. I'm sick of going into every routine detail with you. When you got that letter, you should have immediately worked out a method of retaining the royalties. Then, you could have come in and presented it for my approval. That is the kind of work I want. And that's the kind of work I mean to get in the future. Do you understand?"

Sternly, DeVore suppressed a sarcastic thought. He held his mind and face blank and nodded with a semblance of respect.

"Yes, sir."

"Very well." Morely waved a hand. "Now get something done."