blame."
He thought it was also typical. He had understudied Mr. Kojac for thepreceding two years, and felt there was no one else in the world forwhom he could have as much respect.
"Actually, sir," he explained, "I was delayed by the children."
"An excuse, Boswell! Whether conscious or subconscious, nothing morethan an excuse! Distaste for today's ceremonial is smeared over yourface like so much bread-and-jelly."
Unconsciously, Bozzy wiped his cheeks.
Mr. Kojac laughed. "You're guilt-ridden and that's plain absurd. Allyoung men in your position have to go through exactly the same thing.You must simply make up your mind to do what society requires."
"All I can think of is your kindness," Bozzy blurted. "People shouldreplace those they hate!"
"But the understudy system wouldn't work, then," Mr. Kojac pointedout. "You can't learn from a man who upsets you."
Bozzy nodded miserably.
* * * * *
In silence, he let himself be carried toward the furniture factory,till Mr. Kojac asked, "Did you bring the stimulants?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Excuse me. I should have offered them sooner." Withembarrassed clumsiness, he fished from a pocket in his under-wear thepills required by custom. "Here you are, sir," he said in ritual form."Big pills make troubles little."
Mr. Kojac smiled. "I don't need any," he said gently. "You do. Takeone."
"That isn't proper!"
"No one will know. Go ahead."
He would feel like a fool to take a pill brought only for Mr. Kojac'suse. He would feel much more like a fool if he broke down during theceremony--might even lose his job.
He took the pill, finally, and immediately felt sorry. He was stilltense and twitchy when they reached the factory.
As custom demanded, everyone was out of sight. Nobody met them at thegate, or observed their silent progress up the escalator to thepersonnel office. Noiselessly, through empty soundproof offices, theywalked together to the ceremonial chamber.
The door they used was the room's only entrance. It was hooked openinvitingly. Within was a small conference table of imitation oak, andsix chairs of imitation leather. Ceiling, walls, and floor wereplastic sheets in soft, sandy shades that harmonized with thefurniture's rich browns.
On the table were four wristlets, four anklets, and two belts, allmade of iron links and stamped with either Bozzy's or Mr. Kojac'sname. As he had been told to do, Bozzy picked out and put on his ownset while Mr. Kojac rested in the armchair at the head of the table.Then, breathing noisily, he knelt before Mr. Kojac and fastened theold man's anklets.
He rose, grunting. Mr. Kojac held out first the left hand, then theright, while Bozzy put the wristlets on him. Their cheeks accidentallytouched while Bozzy fastened the belt. He thought of his father andwas irrationally tempted to plant a kiss, as if he were four insteadof forty.
He stifled the impulse and shook hands instead.
"Good luck," Mr. Kojac said.
* * * * *
The procedure did not call for that remark, and so, for a second,Bozzy forgot what came next. Then, helped by the stimulant pill, hefocused his thoughts, crossed the room, and turned a lighted redswitch that glowed by the door.
He heard a muffled clank as iron links froze to the magnetizedarmchair, sounding the signal for his speech.
"Sir," he intoned, "the Company takes this opportunity to express itsdeep and heart-felt appreciation of the thirty-five years you havedevoted to serving the Company, the furniture industry generally, andthat great public, our customers."
Without looking at Mr. Kojac, he bowed, turned, went out, and releasedthe catch holding the door open. It closed automatically, andautomatically set in motion the rest of the ceremony.
From somewhere out of sight, fat Mr. Frewne waddled over and brieflyshook Bozzy's hand.
"You've done fine," he wheezed. "A little late getting started, butthat's to be expected. Every-thing's fine--just fine!"
Praise seemed a miscue. Bozzy didn't quite know how to answer.
"Sir," he asked, mopping his forehead, "what about Mr. Kojac?"
"Oh, he's all right," Mr. Frewne said. "Those fumes are fast. We canleave the rest to the undertaker."
He slapped Bozzy on the back and pushed him down the corridor. "Comeon into my office, boy. I'll pour you a drink--pour us each one, as amatter of fact. And hand over your iron jewelry, son. You won't needthat stuff again for thirty-five years."
--DAVE DRYFOOS
* * * * *
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