In front of her, she held a
silver tray. There was a glass of milk on it and a small plate of
cookies. Nursery school, he thought, and started to laugh. The power
floor is a nursery school!
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes, ha. Yes. Tom Alden. Three o'clock."
"You must be Mr. Prescott."
"Oliver."
"Please make yourself comfortable. Mr. Alden will be with you in just a
moment. May I get you a refreshment?"
"Ah, that's very nice of you. Let's see." Take your blouse off.
Laphroiag. A ticket to anywhere . . . "Coffee--cream, no sugar, if
you would." The woman pressed a button and spoke softly. Oliver sat on
the edge of a love-seat and considered the reading matter on a coffee
table: _Fortune, The Rolls Royce, _ and a copy of _The Economist._ The
redhead appeared at his side, bending fetchingly as she set down a cup
and saucer. "Thank you," Oliver said sincerely.
"Oliver? How good of you to come." Tom, a slimmer darker trophy elk,
smiled winningly and shook hands. "How's that coffee? It's Pilgrim's
blend; we have it roasted to our specs. Margaret, we'll be tied up for
awhile. If Jack Dillon calls, tell him I'll get to him by four.
Pages:
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292