el. He
made an effort to keep crumbs off his shirt and tie. He was confident
that he could handle any software needs that the hospital might have;
it was the group dynamic that put him on the defensive. He felt false
when he made the little gestures required to fit in. He knew how, but
he also knew that eventually he would be unmasked and auto-ejected from
the group like a splinter from its hand. Maybe the First
Fundamentalists wouldn't be so bad. Here I come, he thought. Love your
neighbor. Forgive him his independence. Let's get this over with.

Gifford Sims was large. He wore a dark suit made from a lasting
synthetic material. His black hair was carefully combed; his face was
square and unsmiling. "Come in," he said, indicating a chair where
Oliver was to sit. He rubbed his chin once and gazed out his office
window at the carefully tended parking lot. He was not in a hurry to
speak, but he did not seem put off by Oliver. That was one thing about
being short--you didn't threaten people.

"We had someone in Boston doing the work," he said finally. "Expensive."

"Ah," Oliver said.

"She worked about twenty hours a week, sometimes more."

"I see," Oliver said.

"We don't work on Saturdays unless we have to--babies don't always fit
into our schedule." Gifford swiveled from the window and watched
Oliver. Hard to blame them, Oliver started to say, but he smiled
instead, acknowledging the joke. It was a joke, he was pretty sure,
although it was hard to tell from Gifford's expression.

"It appears from your experience that you could handle the work. Are
these references current?"

"Yes, they are."

"I have no further questions." Silence. Gifford Sims,
conversationalist. Oliver stood.

"Thank you for taking the time. Lovely place . . ." He waved his arm,
vaguely including the hospital and the parking lot. "Well, goodbye, Mr.
Sims."

"Goodbye."

Oliver walked toward the main entrance. A young woman in the hall
looked at him seriously. Her hair was blonde, the color of freshly
planed maple. She had dark eyes and a compact graceful body. Oliver's
stomach tightened; he straightened and nodded as he passed. At the
front door, he said, "So long," to the receptionist, a middle-aged
redhead.

"Y'all come back, now!" Oliver stopped.

"Where you from?"

"Georgia, honey."

"Good deal," Oliver said, "the sun just came out." The hospital,
Gifford Sims notwithstanding, had a light atmosphere. Aside from a
large pain