Five
“Well, thank you.” He settled back in his swivel chair. “Considering that my own people have done nothing but object, it’s most kind of you to support my decision. Did you catch my press conference?”
“Yes,” said the voice on the phone. “You were marvelous.”
“‘One bad apple …’” He shook his head mournfully. “I had to do it; I really did, even if it does impact our productivity negatively. Really, the unchecked influence of someone like Greystein can be devastating.”
“I respect your ability to make the hard decisions,” said the anonymous caller. “In this day and age, you are all too rare.”
“Well …” He knew it was flattery, but relished it nonetheless. “It is my job, to keep Earth linked to the interstellar community.”
“And a fine job you do. Especially considering your comparatively low remuneration—your salary is less than half of McGill Feighan’s, is it not?”
Touched on a sore point, he mumbled an affirmative.
“Public sector officials as competent as yourself should be compensated appropriately. When you return home, do lift the pâté tin in your refrigerator. We left a little something for you. A token of our appreciation, as it were.”
“Well, thank you.” Perhaps he could visit that restaurant, after all.
“You’re quite welcome. Oh, and by the way—do investigate Feighan. Carefully.”