Duke, man."
"Boo."
"Oliver," Richard called, "Help me with this plowman's lunch." Oliver
sat on a wooden bench across the table from Richard.
"I'll have a bite," he said. "What's happening?"
"Oh, the usual," Richard said. "Palace intrigue. Too many chemists in
one lab. I shouldn't complain; they do a good job." He bent over the
table and lowered his voice. "One of the supervisors is a bit rigid. I
hear about it, you know. I've tried to talk to her. It's delicate." He
brightened as he straightened. "I'm sending her to a conference in
Amsterdam. Maybe something will happen."
"That would be the place," Oliver said, cutting a slab of Stilton.
"How are you doing? Working?"
"In between programming projects at the moment," Oliver said. "Not sure
what to do next. Sometimes I wonder what's the point of doing anything."
"Oliver . . ." Richard reminded him, pointing at the smoky ceiling,
"you've got to trust The Man Upstairs. It's His plan." This would be
too corny to take if it weren't coming from Richard.
"I wish He'd let me in on it." Oliver took a long swallow of stout.
"I'll tell you what I do when I feel bad," Richard said. "I find
somebody who's worse off than I am, and I do something to help him out.
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