"We should never have let him get on this platform! A man like that can't be treated like a civilized human being! He has to be destroyed, like an animal!"
Heartsick and enraged, Kimmensen stared across the platform at the blade-nosed man.
"Not like an animal," he whispered to himself. "Not like an animal. Like a disease."
Still shaken, still sick, Kimmensen sat in his office and stared down at his hands. Twenty-eight years of selfless dedication had brought him to this day.
He looked up at the knock on his open door, and felt himself turn rigid.
"May I come in?" Messerschmidt asked quietly, unmoving, waiting for Kimmensen's permission.
Kimmensen tightened his hands. "What do you want?"
"I'd like to apologize for my performance this afternoon." The voice was still quiet, and still steady. The mouth, with its deep line etched at one corner, was grave and a little bit sad.
"Come in," Kimmensen said, wondering what new tactic Messerschmidt would use.