He’d been heading for the door. He turned. “Yeah, chief?”
I said, “I want you to send a message on the radiotype to Earth Center. And get it straight, two words: I quit. ”
He said, “O.K., chief.” He went on out and closed the door.
I sat back and closed my eyes to think. I’d done it now. Unless I ran after Reagan and told him not to send the message, it was done and over and irrevocable. Earth Center’s funny that way; the board is plenty generous in some directions, but once you resign they never let you change your mind. It’s practically an iron-clad rule and ninety-nine times out of a hundred it’s justified on interplanetary and intragalactic projects. A man must be a hundred percent enthusiastic about his job to make a go of it, and once he’s turned against it, he’s lost the keen edge.
I knew the midperiod was about over, but I sat there with my eyes closed just the same. I didn’t want to open them to look at the clock until I could sec the clock as a clock and not as whatever it might be this time. I sat there and thought.
I felt a bit hurt about Reagan’s casualness in accepting the message. He’d been a good friend of mine for ten years; he could at least have said he was sorry I was going to leave. Of course, there was a fair chance that he might get the promotion, but even if he was thinking about that, he could have been diplomatic about it. At least, he could have—
Oh, quit feeling sorry for yourself, I told myself. You’re through with Placet and you’re through with Earth Center, and you’re going back to Earth pretty soon now, as soon as they relieve you, and you can get another job there, probably teaching again.
But darn Reagan, just the same. He’d been my student at Earth City Poly, and I’d got him this Placet job and it was a good one for a youngster his age, assistant administrator of a planet with nearly a thousand population. For that matter, my job was a good one for a man my age—I’m only thirty-one myself. An excellent job, except that you couldn’t put up a building that wouldn’t fall down again and… Quit crabbing, I told myself; you’re through with it now. Back to Earth and a teaching job again. Forget it.
I was tired. I put my head on my arms on top of the desk, and I must have dozed off for a minute.
I looked up at the sound of footsteps coming through the doorway; they weren’t Reagan’s footsteps. The illusions were getting better now, I saw. It was—or appeared to be—a gorgeous redhead. It couldn’t be, of course. There are a few women on Placet, mostly wives of technicians, but she said, “Don’t you remember me, Mr. Rand?” It was a woman; her voice was a woman’s voice, and a beautiful voice. Sounded vaguely familiar, too.