"Scout Captain Hartley, sir." He went out and sat down on the edge of a chair. No, it wasn't going to work, he could just see it wasn't.
Then the Major was striding out and shouting, "Follow me, the General actually wants to break you in person!"
Cramer sighed and followed him up an escalator, then past two receptionists and two private secretaries. The Major pointed at a small door. "You go in on your own, soldier."
He turned the knob and stepped nervously into a room which was bare except for a glass-topped desk behind which General Chisholm was seated and a few wrought-iron chairs facing the desk. The General stared at him as if he weren't there but would materialize under prolonged scrutiny. "Sit down and tell me what this is all about," Chisholm said, raising one index finger from the desk.
Cramer sucked in his breath and the story came pouring out, faster and faster all the time as if he were racing against the moment when Chisholm would bark for silence and bring him crashing down. But the General said nothing, studying first one cuticle, then the speaker's face, then back to the next cuticle.
Suddenly he slammed on an intercom and said, "Get Dr. Jonas and tell him to bring a portable blood test rig."