shorthand, typewriters and pretty stenographers. Finally, he cleared
the machine, dumping the whole mess into a basket and carrying it out
to his secretary.

"Miss Collins, take this infernal rubbish and have a couple of the
girls divide it between them, play it off, and make a digest of it,"
he said. "And here. The sports schedule, and this parental-consent
thing on the husband-trapping course. Have them taken care of."

"This stuff," Martha Collins said, poking at the pile of letter disks.
"I suppose about half of it is threats, abuse and obscenities, and the
other half is from long-winded bores with idiotic suggestions and
ill-natured gripes. I'll use that old tag line, again--'hoping you
appreciate our brevity as much as we enjoyed yours--'"

"Yes. That'll be all right." He looked at his watch. "I'm going to
make a personal building-tour, instead of using the TV. The animals
are sort of restless, today. The election; the infantile compulsion to
take sides. If you need me for anything urgent, don't use oral call.
Just flash my signal, red-blue-red-blue, on the hall and classroom
screens. Oh, Doug!"

Yetsko, his length of rubber hose under his arm, ambled out of
Prestonby's private office, stopping to stub out his cigarette. The
action reminded Prestonby that he still had his pipe in his mouth; he
knocked it out and pocketed it. Together, they went into the hall
outside.

"Where to, first, captain?" Yetsko wanted to know.