"All right, Mallston," he said. "Put McWorther's World on a Class A aid schedule. That ought to hold the Potentate until Summerson gets back."
In the commercial section of Hub City, Rear-Sobucks and Company occupied a monstrous building whose emblematic tip pierced the clouds.
On the two hundredth floor, the twenty-seventh vice-president strode through the rail gate, tossed the secretary a "don't-bother-to-announce-me" glance and went on into the inner office of the twenty-sixth vice-president.
"Got something I thought you'd be interested in, V.R.," he told the limp-faced man behind the desk. "There may be a promotion angle."
"What is it?" V.R. asked, not exactly gripping his chair with anticipation.
The other placed the space-o-gram on the desk. "It's from an Ogarm Netath, prime minister of a place called Gauyuth-Six. He wants an automatic bather."
V.R. extended a "so what?" glare.
"Don't you see? Big shots like that don't place personal orders. But here's one who thinks so much of a Rear-Sobucks item that he forgets all about convention."
"And so, Wheeler, you want to capitalize on his good name in some sort of promotion gimmick," V.R. said through taut lips.