The vidphone clicked. "Unity Control, sir."
"This is North American Director Barris." In a steady voice he said, "I wish to put through an emergency request to Vulcan 3."
A pause and then, "Any first-order data to offer?" The screen was blank; he got only the voice, and it was so bland, so impersonal, that he could not recognize the person. Some functionary, no doubt. A nameless cog.
"Nothing not already filed." His answer came with heavy reluctance. The functionary, nameless or not, knew the right questions; he was skilled at his job.
"Then," the voice said, "you'll have to put through your request in the usual fashion." The rustling of sheets of paper. "The delay period," the voice continued, "is now three days."
In a light, bantering voice, Barris said, "What's Vulcan 3 doing these day? Working out chess openings?" Such a quip had to be made in a bantering manner; his scalp depended on it.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Barris. The time lag can't be cut even for Director-level personnel."
Barris started to ring off. And then, plunging all the way into it, he said in a brisk, authoritative tone, "Let me talk to Jason Dill, then."
"Managing Director Dill is in conference." The functionary was not impressed, nor disturbed. "He can't be bothered in matters of routine."
With a savage swipe of his hand, Barris cut the circuit. The screen died. Three days! The eternal bureaucracy of the monster organization. They had him; they really knew how to delay.
He reflectively picked up his coffee cup and sipped it. The cold, bitter stuff choked him and he poured it out; the pot refilled the cup at once with fresh coffee.
Didn't Vulcan 3 give a damn? Maybe it wasn't concerned with the world-wide Movement that was out-as Taubmann had said-to smash its metal hide and strew its relays and memory tubes and wiring for the crows to pick over.