that evening. Thorpe knew that; it went with the salary.
"That's okay, Sir James. I had nothing on that a phone call can't kill."
"Good. Look, I've been going over some old reports and came across this one. Six months ago one of our men from Overseas Contracts was sent out to a place called Zangaro. I don't know why, but I'd like to. The man secured that government's go-ahead for a small team from here to conduct a survey for any possible mineral deposits in unchartered land beyond the mountain range called the Crystal Mountains. Now, what I want to know is this: Was it ever mentioned in advance or at the time, or since that visit six months ago, to the board?"
"To the board?"
"That's right. Was it ever mentioned to the board of directors that we were doing any such survey? That's what I want to know. It may not necessarily be on the agenda. You'll have to look at the minutes. And in case
it got a passing mention under 'any other business,' check through the documents of all board meetings over the past twelve months. Secondly, find out who authorized the visit by Bryant six months ago and why, and who sent the survey engineer down there and why. The man who did the survey is called Mulrooney. I also want to know something about him, which you can get from his file in Personnel. Got it?"
Thorpe was surprised. This was way out of his line of country.
"Yes, Sir James, but Miss Cooke could do that in half the time, or get somebody to do it—"
"Yes, she could. But I want you to do it. If you look at a file from Personnel, or boardroom documents, it will be assumed it has something to do with finance. Therefore it will remain discreet."
The light began to dawn on Martin Thorpe. "You mean . . . they found something down there, Sir James?"
Manson stared out at the now inky sky and the blazing lights below him as the brokers and traders, clerks and merchants, bankers and assessors, insurers and jobbers, buyers and sellers, lawyers and, in some offices no doubt, lawbreakers, worked on through the winter afternoon toward the witching hour of five-thirty.
"Never mind," he said gruffly to the young man behind him. "Just do it."
Martin Thorpe was grinning as he slipped through the back entrance of the office and down the stairs to his own premises. "Cunning bastard," he said to himself on the stairs.
"Mr. Bryant is here, Sir James."
Manson crossed the room and switched on the main lights. Returning to his desk, he depressed the intercom button. "Send him in, Miss Cooke."
There were three reasons why middle-level executives had occasion to be summoned to the sanctum on the tenth floor. One was to hear instructions or deliver a report that Sir James wanted to issue or hear
personally, which was business. One was to be chewed into a sweat-soaked rag, which was hell. The third was that the chief executive had decided he wanted to play favorite uncle to his cherished employees, which was reassuring.
On the threshold Richard Bryant, at thirty-nine a middle-level executive who did his work competently and well but needed his job, was plainly aware that the first reason of the three could not be the one that brought him here. He suspected the second and was immensely relieved to see it had to be the third.
From the center of the office Sir James walked toward him with a smile of welcome. "Ah, come in, Bryant. Come in."
As Bryant entered, Miss Cooke closed the door behind him and retired to her desk.
Sir James Manson gestured to his employee to take one of the easy chairs set well away from the desk in the conference area of the spacious office. Bryant, still wondering what it was all about, took the indicated chair and sank into its brushed suede cushions. Manson advanced toward the wall and opened two doors, revealing a well-stocked bar cabinet.
"Take a drink, Bryant? Sun's well down, I think."
"Thank you, sir—er—scotch, please."
"Good man. My own favorite poison. I'll join you."
Bryant glanced at his watch. It was quarter to five, and the
"That's okay, Sir James. I had nothing on that a phone call can't kill."
"Good. Look, I've been going over some old reports and came across this one. Six months ago one of our men from Overseas Contracts was sent out to a place called Zangaro. I don't know why, but I'd like to. The man secured that government's go-ahead for a small team from here to conduct a survey for any possible mineral deposits in unchartered land beyond the mountain range called the Crystal Mountains. Now, what I want to know is this: Was it ever mentioned in advance or at the time, or since that visit six months ago, to the board?"
"To the board?"
"That's right. Was it ever mentioned to the board of directors that we were doing any such survey? That's what I want to know. It may not necessarily be on the agenda. You'll have to look at the minutes. And in case
it got a passing mention under 'any other business,' check through the documents of all board meetings over the past twelve months. Secondly, find out who authorized the visit by Bryant six months ago and why, and who sent the survey engineer down there and why. The man who did the survey is called Mulrooney. I also want to know something about him, which you can get from his file in Personnel. Got it?"
Thorpe was surprised. This was way out of his line of country.
"Yes, Sir James, but Miss Cooke could do that in half the time, or get somebody to do it—"
"Yes, she could. But I want you to do it. If you look at a file from Personnel, or boardroom documents, it will be assumed it has something to do with finance. Therefore it will remain discreet."
The light began to dawn on Martin Thorpe. "You mean . . . they found something down there, Sir James?"
Manson stared out at the now inky sky and the blazing lights below him as the brokers and traders, clerks and merchants, bankers and assessors, insurers and jobbers, buyers and sellers, lawyers and, in some offices no doubt, lawbreakers, worked on through the winter afternoon toward the witching hour of five-thirty.
"Never mind," he said gruffly to the young man behind him. "Just do it."
Martin Thorpe was grinning as he slipped through the back entrance of the office and down the stairs to his own premises. "Cunning bastard," he said to himself on the stairs.
"Mr. Bryant is here, Sir James."
Manson crossed the room and switched on the main lights. Returning to his desk, he depressed the intercom button. "Send him in, Miss Cooke."
There were three reasons why middle-level executives had occasion to be summoned to the sanctum on the tenth floor. One was to hear instructions or deliver a report that Sir James wanted to issue or hear
personally, which was business. One was to be chewed into a sweat-soaked rag, which was hell. The third was that the chief executive had decided he wanted to play favorite uncle to his cherished employees, which was reassuring.
On the threshold Richard Bryant, at thirty-nine a middle-level executive who did his work competently and well but needed his job, was plainly aware that the first reason of the three could not be the one that brought him here. He suspected the second and was immensely relieved to see it had to be the third.
From the center of the office Sir James walked toward him with a smile of welcome. "Ah, come in, Bryant. Come in."
As Bryant entered, Miss Cooke closed the door behind him and retired to her desk.
Sir James Manson gestured to his employee to take one of the easy chairs set well away from the desk in the conference area of the spacious office. Bryant, still wondering what it was all about, took the indicated chair and sank into its brushed suede cushions. Manson advanced toward the wall and opened two doors, revealing a well-stocked bar cabinet.
"Take a drink, Bryant? Sun's well down, I think."
"Thank you, sir—er—scotch, please."
"Good man. My own favorite poison. I'll join you."
Bryant glanced at his watch. It was quarter to five, and the
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