He was confident
that he could handle any software needs that the hospital might have;
it was the group dynamic that put him on the defensive. He felt false
when he made the little gestures required to fit in. He knew how, but
he also knew that eventually he would be unmasked and auto-ejected from
the group like a splinter from its hand. Maybe the First
Fundamentalists wouldn't be so bad. Here I come, he thought. Love your
neighbor. Forgive him his independence. Let's get this over with.
Gifford Sims was large. He wore a dark suit made from a lasting
synthetic material. His black hair was carefully combed; his face was
square and unsmiling. "Come in," he said, indicating a chair where
Oliver was to sit. He rubbed his chin once and gazed out his office
window at the carefully tended parking lot. He was not in a hurry to
speak, but he did not seem put off by Oliver. That was one thing about
being short--you didn't threaten people.
"We had someone in Boston doing the work," he said finally. "Expensive."
"Ah," Oliver said.
"She worked about twenty hours a week, sometimes more."
"I see," Oliver said.
"We don't work on Saturdays unless we have to--babies don't always fit
into our schedule.
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