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— The cobalt’s what they want. The cobalt’s what they’re getting. He took off the glasses, folded in their straight black bows and sat back molding the bridge of his nose. — Why drag in anything else.

— Like to see things spelled out Monty, spell them out now you don’t end up trying to spell them out for some damn subcommittee.

A light glowed on the desk’s button-studded console and a naked arm braceleted with the time came up for the telephone. — Mister Beaton, sir.

— Just tell him… staring beyond them, Moncrieff’s finger coursed the ridge of his nose as though the face where his eyes were fixed, dropped back to profile and none of its aloofness lost, even lowered, prompted comparison. — Here… he took the telephone, — bring in everything on this smaltite contract, and Beaton? My daughter’s here waiting to sign those powers of attorney. What’s holding things up. He handed back the telephone still looking beyond where her profile broke again, turning to him, slipping off the tortoise shells, dangling them.

— Must I read all this now? The children…

— Just sit still for a minute, Amy. What is it Dave.

Davidoff came forward as though he had just entered. — Your youngsters are fine, he skirted the thrust of her ankle as she crossed her knees — in there watching the presentation we put together for the spring stockholders’ meeting getting a real kick out of it, he came rounding the corner of the desk in a generous turn that included them all in his audience, lowering his tone on arrival for the confidence — We’d better watch our step Boss, they’re a pretty shrewd bunch…

A light glowed. Up came the phone, and a murmur — the press calling for the statement…

— He’s got it right here, just read it off to them here Dave.

From the tangle of arms naked, silk-and-mohair, the acrylic sheen of Davidoff’s rose with the telephone. — Hello? You’ll have the statement first thing tomorrow, he said, and handed the phone back.

— What’s this, then. Where’s the statement.

— Being typed up sir, said Davidoff, briskly tossing the paper clip from his papers into the empty wastebasket. — This is your biography, I wanted to check it out before we release it…

— I want this press statement out today.

— Yes sir and on this bio, I thought we might want…

— Let me see that… Cates straightened up from the wastebasket to drop the paper clip into a vest pocket.

— Yes sir. Oh and Miss Bulcke, she can run off a draft right now Boss save us time, just take this… he nodded to her blank pad. — The long overdue technical readjustments taking place in our present dynamic market situation offer…

— Who the devil cares whether you played football against Brown, Monty.

— We felt sir, in creating Mister Moncrieff’s image as an aggressive competitive team player…

— Image! Cates’ laugh cleared his throat, — they ought to see you running around with that damn butterfly net Monty.

— Will you read back, Miss…

— market situation offer…

— offer no convincing evidence of the kind that has characterized long-term deter… A light glowed. The pencil stopped.

— Ever see your father with that butterfly net, Amy?

— Senator Broos returning your call, sir.

— long-term deterioration…

— Broos? Hold on a minute. Come in Beaton. Amy? Just sit still for a minute. Broos…?

— deterioration. In the past…

— Finish that up outside Dave. Broos? Beaton’s right here yes, what’s the story down there…

Davidoff avoided Beaton’s approach with a badly choreographed sidestep, recovered his balance as Beaton drew a chair to the desk and his evenly dulled black shoes neatly together without a glance up from the papers he opened before him.

— Hold on. What time is my plane?

— What airport, said Cates behind her.

— I don’t know sir.

— Well you’d better know, damn cab fare to Kennedy’s twice the fare to LaGuardia.

— Yes sir.

— They want to know if there’s any way we can put off signing this contract till next week, Moncrieff’said away from the phone. Beaton leaned close and spoke in a low tone. — Hello? No it’s impossible, my resignation here’s effective at the close of today’s business, hold on… a light glowed and he handed over the phone.

— It’s General Blaufinger sir.

— Tell him to hold on.

— He’s a damned old woman, Cates muttered making figures on the back of an envelope.

— He’s calling from Bonn sir.