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Updated: May 23, 2025
And still Ben Tilman felt that uneasy dissatisfaction. Damn. "Mr. Robb will see you now, Mr. Tilman," said the cool robot voice from the Elec-Sec Desk. It was after customer hours and the charming human receptionist had gone.
In fact, he could see the building from his window, a tall functional block of durilium and plastic, soaring above the others on the street, the sunlight gleaming off its clean square lines. He eyed it curiously, wondering what he would find inside. The receptionist took his I.D. and the letter, scanned them briefly, and slipped them into one of the message tubes beside her desk.
Last night had gone well. The Old Man would give them a pre-paid vacation clearance to any resort in the world or out. Why gloom? He rubbed Bennie's unruly hair, kissed Betty and conveyed over from Guest-ville to office. Message-sec, in tone respect-admiration A, told him the Old Man was waiting for him. Susan, the human receptionist in the outer office, favored him with a dazzling smile.
The receptionist said, "Good afternoon, Dr. Haer. Mr. Holland is expecting you." It came to Joe now Philip Holland, secretary to Harlow Mannerheim, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He had met the man a few months ago at Nadine's home in that swank section of Greater Washington once known as Baltimore. But he had no idea what Nadine had in mind bringing him here.
Surely they couldn't be in the Octagon or the New White House. But, if so, why? Nadine said. "Here we are," and indicated a door which opened at their approach. There was a receptionist in the small office beyond, a bit of ostentation Joe Mauser seldom met with in the modern world. What in the name of Zen could anyone need with other than an auto-receptionist? Didn't efficiency mean anything here?
Perhaps a month, three weeks of which would be used for recruiting and drill, the last week for the fracas itself. Nobody could excel Marshal Cogswell in using the three weeks to best advantage. Major Joe Mauser came to attention before the desk of the lieutenant colonel of Marshal Cogswell's staff who was acting as receptionist before the sanctum sanctorum of the field genius.
"Do you live in Tonggyo-dong?," asked Sang Huin creating a mental barricade to stop the closure. " No, but I work and study at the university." He paused and then filled in the silence. "My cousin is a dean in the mathematics department. I work part-time at Yongsei as his receptionist so that is probably why you saw us there," said the man speaking of himself in plurality.
Instead of offering her wisdom or support, he sat in the lobby of the abortion clinic, sorting and counting cash from a workshop he had given on spiritual evolution. When Anne returned to the lobby after the abortion, Rama had disappeared. Embarrassed, she approached the receptionist. "He went to a bookstore," the woman replied. "He said he'd be back later."
The receptionist announced him and Philon walked in to find Rakoff awaiting him behind his beautiful carved desk. Rakoff's dead-white cheeks never stirred and his stiff blond hair stood up in a rigid crew cut. He rolled his cigar in his big mouth. "Hello, Miller. What's on your mind?" Philon took a breath and it seemed to him now that this idea was a crazy one.
The receptionist did the things that receptionists do, then looked up at him again. "Right through that door, major." Joe Mauser gave the door a quick double rap and then entered before waiting an answer. Balt Haer, in mufti, was standing at a far window, a drink in his hand, rather than his customary swagger stick. Nadine Haer sat in an easy-chair. The girl Joe Mauser loved had been crying.
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