The Best of Gene Wolfe

knows your grade but you. You’re told your own grade and your class standing and your standing among everybody here who’s ever taken the course—naturally that doesn’t mean much; the problems change all the time—but what you do with that information is up to you. You evaluate yourself. I know there have been these rumors about Mr. Frick coming in and asking the computer questions, but it’s not true—frankly, I don’t think Mr. Frick even knows how to program. It doesn’t just talk to you, you know.”

“I didn’t get to attend the first part of the course,” Forlesen said. “I’m filling in for Cappy Dillingham. He died.”

“Sorry to hear that. Old age, I guess.”

“I don’t know.”

“Probably that was it. Hell, it seems like it was only yesterday I was talking to him about his grade after class —he had some question about one oh four; I don’t even remember what it was now. Old Cappy. Wow.”

“How was he doing?” Forlesen asked.

“Not too hot. I had him figured for about a five-fifty, give or take twenty—but listen, if you had seen the earlier stuff you wouldn’t be asking these questions now. You’d of been guided into it—see what I mean?”

Forlesen said, “I just don’t see how I can mark this. I’m going to return the unmarked sheet under protest.”

“I told you, we can’t score something like that.”

Forlesen said, “Well, that’s what I’m going to do,” and hung up.

His desk said, “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? He’s going to call you back.”

Forlesen looked for the speaker but could not find it.

“I heard you talking to Franklin too, and I saw you throw away the Management Responsibilities list. Do you know that in a lot of the offices here you find that framed and hung on the wall? Some of them hang it where they can see it, and some of them hang it where their visitors can see it.”

“Which kind gets promoted?” Forlesen asked. He had decided the speaker was under the center desk drawer, and was on his hands and knees looking for it.

“The kind that fit in,” the desk said.

Forlesen said, “What kind of an answer is that?” The telephone rang and he answered it.

“Mr. Forlesen, please.” It was Fairchild.

“Speaking.”

“I was wondering about number one oh five—have you sent it back yet?”

“I just put it in my out-box,” Forlesen said. “They haven’t picked it up yet.” Vaguely he wondered if Miss Fawn was supposed to empty the out-box, or if anyone was; perhaps he was supposed to do it himself.

“Good, good. Listen, I’ve been thinking about what you said—do you think that if I told you what was wrong with this girl you’d be able to size her up better? The thing is, she just doesn’t fit in; you know what I mean?”

“No,” Forlesen said.

“Let me give you an example. Guys come in the office all the time, either to talk to me or just because they haven’t anything better to do. They kid around with the girls, you know? Okay, this girl, you never know how she’s going to take it. Sometimes she gets mad. Sometimes she thinks the guy really wants to get romantic, and she wants to go along with it.”

“I’d think they’d learn to leave her alone,” Forlesen said.

“Believe me, they have. And the other girls don’t like her—they come in to me and say they want to be moved away from her desk.”

“Do they say why?”

“Oh, hell, no. Listen, if you’d ever bossed a bunch of women you’d know better than that; the way they always put it is the light isn’t good there, or it’s too close to the keypunch—too noisy—or it’s too far from the keypunch and they don’t wanna have to walk that far, or they want to be closer to somebody they do like. But you know how it is—I’ve moved her all around the damn office and everybody wants to get away; she’s Typhoid Mary.”

“Make her your permanent secretary,” Forlesen said.

“What?”

“Just for a while. Give your mother a special assignment. That way you can find out what’s wrong with this girl, if anything is, which I doubt.”

“You’re crazy, Forlesen,” Fairchild said, and hung up.

The telephone rang again almost as soon as Forlesen set the receiver down. “This is Miss Fawn,” the telephone said. “Mr. Freeling wants to see you, Mr. Forlesen.”

“Mr. Freeling?”

“Mr. Freeling is Mr. Fields’s chief, Mr. Forlesen, and Mr. Fields is your chief. Mr. Freeling reports to Mr. Flint, and Mr. Flint reports directly to Mr. Frick. I am Mr. Freeling’s secretary.”

“Thank you,” Forlesen said. “I was beginning to wonder where you fit in.”

“Right out of your office, down the hall to the ‘T,’ left, up the stairs, and along the front of the building. Mr. Freeling’s name is on the door.”

“Thank you,” Forlesen said again.