ade money helping executives scale the
job ladder. He was amused and ironic about it. They knocked themselves
out; he got the dancers--for a time.

"Hey, Richard!"

"Mark . . . Oliver . . . The boss let us out early." Pleased with
this statement, Richard O'Grady, who acknowledged no boss but "The Man
Upstairs," shuffled to his customary place at a long table on the other
side of the bar. He was bright eyed, slight, and stooped, a survivor of
diabetes and severe arthritis.

"Amazing smile!" Oliver said.

"A world authority on blood chemistry," Mark said. "You'd never know
it--in here every night drinking scotch."

"Every night but Sunday," Oliver said. "I asked him, one time, where he
got that smile. I thought he'd say something like: it was his mother's.
He said, 'Don't know.' Then he said, 'Use it!' It was like a command
he'd been given."

"Not too many around here that haven't had a drink on Richard," Mark
said. "I'm outa here. Duke, man."

"Boo."

"Oliver," Richard called, "Help me with this plowman's lunch." Oliver
sat on a wooden bench across the table from Richard.

"I'll have a bite," he said. "What's happening?"

"Oh, the usual," Richard said. "Palace intrigue. Too many chemists in
one lab. I shouldn't complain; they do a good job." He bent over the
table and lowered his voice. "One of the supervisors is a bit rigid. I
hear about it, you know. I've tried to talk to her. It's delicate." He
brightened as he straightened. "I'm sending her to a conference in
Amsterdam. Maybe something will happen."

"That would be the place," Oliver said, cutting a slab of Stilton.

"How are you doing? Working?"

"In between programming projects at the moment," Oliver said. "Not sure
what to do next. Sometimes I wonder what's the point of doing anything."

"Oliver . . ." Richard reminded him, pointing at the smoky ceiling,
"you've got to trust The Man Upstairs. It's His plan." This would be
too corny to take if it weren't coming from Richard.

"I wish He'd let me in on it." Oliver took a long swallow of stout.

"I'll tell you what I do when I feel bad," Richard said. "I find
somebody who's worse off than I am, and I do something to help him out.
Or her out. Works every time." He turned toward Sam and held one
crippled hand in the air. "Over here, Sam, when you can." Oliver didn't
think in terms of other people. He related to them as required, but his
focus was inward. He imagined Richard's process: let's see