meant
promotion in status and pay.

He turned over his car to a parker at the departmental parking lot and
made his way through the entrance utilized by second-grade departmental
officials. In another year, he told himself, he'd be using that other
door.

The Boss' reception secretary looked up when Lawrence Woolford entered the
anteroom where she presided. "Hello, Larry," she said. "Hear they called
your vacation short. Darn shame."

LaVerne Polk was a cute little whizz of efficiency. Like Napoleon and his
army, she knew the name of every member of the department and was on a
first-name basis with all. However, she was definitely a weird. For
instance, styles might come and styles might go, but LaVerne dressed for
comfort, did her hair the way she thought it looked best, and wore
low-heeled walking shoes on the job. In fact, she was ready and willing to
snarl at anyone, no matter how kindly intentioned, who even hinted that
her nonconformity didn't help her promotion prospects.

Woolford said, "Hi, LaVerne. I think the Boss is expecting me."

"That he is. Go right in, Larry."

She looked after him when he turned and left her desk. Lawrence Woolford
cut a pleasant figure as thirty year old bachelors go.

The Boss looked up from some report on his desk which he'd been frowning
at, nodded to his field man and said, "Sit down, Lawrence. I'll be with
you in a minute. Please take a look at this while you're waiting." He
handed over a banknote.

Larry Woolford took it and found himself a comfortable chair. He examined
the bill, front and back. It was a fifty dollar note, almost new.

Finally the Boss, a stocky but impeccable career bureaucrat of the
ultra-latest school, scribbled his initials on the report and tossed it
into an Out chute. He said to Woolford, "I am sorry to cut short your
vacation, Lawrence. I considered giving Walter Foster the assignment, but
I think you're the better choice."

Larry decided the faint praise routine was the best tactic, said earnestly
about his closest rival. "Walt's a good man, sir." And then, "What's the
crisis?"

"What do you think of that fifty?"

His trouble shooter looked down at it. "What is there to think about it?"

The Boss grunted, slid open a desk drawer and brought forth another bill.
"Here, look at this, please."

It was another fifty. Larry Woolford frowned at it, not getting whatever
was going on.

"Observe the serial numbers," the Boss said impatiently.