“Twenty-two million?” asked Forrester.
The boy shook his head disgustedly. “Twenty-two individual Sirians. Isn’t that rotten?”
But before Forrester could answer, his joymaker spoke up.
“Man Forrester! Your tests have been integrated and assayed. May I display the transcript on Bensen children equipment?”
“Go ahead,” the boy said sullenly. “Can’t be any worse than that.”
The star map disappeared from the wall and was replaced by shimmering sine waves, punctuated with numbers that were quite meaningless to Forrester. “You may apply for reevaluation on any element of the profile, if you wish. Do you wish to do this, Man Forrester?”
“Hell, no.” The numbers and graphs were not only meaningless but disturbing. Forrester had a flash of memory, which he identified as dating from the last time a government agency had concerned itself with finding him a job— after his discharge from his post-Korean peacetime army service, when he joined the long lines of unemployables telling their lies to a bored State Employment Service clerk. He could almost see the squares of linoleum on the floor, the queues of those who, like himself, wanted only to collect unemployment insurance for a while, in the hope that during that time the world would clarify itself for them.
But the joymaker was talking.
“Your profile, Man Forrester, indicates relatively high employability in personal-service and advocative categories. I have selected ninety-three possible openings. Shall I give you the list?”
“My God, no. Just give me the one you like best.”
“Your optimum choice, Man Forrester, is as follows: Salary, seventeen thousand five hundred. This is rather less than your stated requirements, but an expense—”
“Hold on a minute! I’ll say it’s less! I was asking for ten million!”
“Yes, Man Forrester. You stated ten million per year. This is seventeen thousand five hundred per day. At four-day-week norm, allowing for projected overtime as against health losses, three million eight hundred thousand dollars per year. Expenses are also included, however, optimized at five million plus in addition to salary.”
“Wait a minute.” The numbers were so large as to be dizzying. He turned to the children. “That’s almost nine million a year. Can I live on that?”
“Sweat, Charles, sure, if you want to.”
Forrester took a deep breath.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
The joymaker did not seem particularly concerned. “Very well, Man Forrester. Your duties are as follows: Conversation. Briefing. Discussion. The orientation is timeless, so your status as a recent disfreezee will not be a handicap. You will be expected to answer questions and be available for discussions, usually remote due to habitat considerations. Some travel is indicated.”
“Sweat.” The Bensen children were showing signs of interest; the boy sat up, and his sister stared wide-eyed at Forrester.
“Supplementary information, Man Forrester: This employer has rejected automated services for heuristic reasons. His desideratum is subjectivity rather than accuracy of data. The employer is relatively unfamiliar with human history, culture, and customs—”
“It is!” cried the girl.
“—And will supplement your services with TIC data as needed.”
Forrester cut in, “Never mind that. Where do I go for my interview?”
“Man Forrester, you have had it.”
“You mean I’ve got the job? but—but what do I do next?”
“Man Forrester, I was outlining the procedure. Please note the following signal.” There was a mellow, booming chime. “This will indicate a message from your employer. Under the terms of your employment contract, you may not decline to accept these messages during the hours of ten hundred to fourteen hundred on working days. You are further required to receive such messages with no more than twelve hours’ delay even on nonworking days. Thank you, Man Forrester.”
And that, thought Forrester, was that.
Except for trying to find out what was bugging the kids. He said, “All right. What’s eating you?”
They were whispering together, their eyes on him. The boy stopped long enough to ask, “Eating us, Charles?”
“Why are you acting like that?” Forrester amended.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Nothing important,” corrected the girl.
“Come on!”
The little girl said, “It’s just that we never knew anybody who’d work for them before.”
“Work for who?”
“The joymaker told you, Charles! Don’t you listen?” said the boy, and the girl chimed in, “Sweat, Charles! Don’t you know who you’re working for?”
Forrester took a deep breath and glared at them. He told himself that they were only children and that in fact he was rather fond of them; but they seemed on this particular morning to be determined to drive him mad. He sat
