a Federal employee. The
United States Patent Office is my beat. There's one nice thing to be
said about working for the bewhiskered old gentleman in the
star-spangled stovepipe and striped britches: it's permanent. Once you
get your name inscribed on the list of Civil Service employees it takes
an act of Congress to blast it off again. And of course I don't have to
remind you how long it takes _that_ body of vote-happy windbags to act.
Terrapins in treacle are greased lightning by comparison.

But advancement is painfully slow in a department where discharges are
unheard of and resignations rare. When I started clerking for this
madhouse I was assistant to the assistant Chief Clerk's assistant. Now,
ten years later, by dint of mighty effort and a cultivated facility for
avoiding Senatorial investigations, I've succeeded in losing only one of
those redundant adjectives.

Being my secretary, Joyce certainly realized this. But women have a
remarkable ability to separate business and pleasure. So:

"A promotion," she insisted. "Or at least a good, substantial raise."

"In case you don't know it," I told her gloomily, "you are displaying a
lamentably vulgar interest in one of life's lesser values. Happiness,
not money, should be man's chief goal."

"What good is happiness," demanded Joyce, "if you can't buy money with
it?"

"Why hoard lucre?" I sniffed. "You can't take it with you."

"In that case," said Joyce flatly, "I'm not going. There's no use
arguing, Don. I've made up my mind--"

At this moment our dreary little impasse was ended by a sudden tumult
outside my office. There was a squealing shriek, the shuffle of
footsteps, the pounding of fists upon my door. And over all the shrill
tones of an old, familiar voice high-pitched in triumph.

"Let me in! I've got to see him instantaceously. This time I've got it;
I've absolutely _got_ it!"

Joyce and I gasped, then broke simultaneously for the door as it flew
open to reveal a tableau resembling the Laocoon group _sans_ snake and
party of the third part. Back to the door and struggling valiantly to
defend it stood the receptionist, Miss Thomas. Held briefly but volubly
at bay was a red-thatched, buck-toothed individual--and I _do_ mean
individual!--with a face like the map of Eire, who stopped wrestling as
he saw us, and grinned delightedly.

"Hello, Mr. Mallory," he said. "Hi, Miss Joyce."

"Pat!" we both cried at once. "Pat Pending!"

* *