"Oh, yes, sir. Excuse me. I should have offered them sooner." With embarrassed clumsiness, he fished from a pocket in his under-wear the pills required by custom. "Here you are, sir," he said in ritual form. "Big pills make troubles little."
Mr. Kojac smiled. "I don't need any," he said gently. "You do. Take one."
"That isn't proper!"
"No one will know. Go ahead."
He would feel like a fool to take a pill brought only for Mr. Kojac's use. He would feel much more like a fool if he broke down during the ceremony—might even lose his job.
He took the pill, finally, and immediately felt sorry. He was still tense and twitchy when they reached the factory.
As custom demanded, everyone was out of sight. Nobody met them at the gate, or observed their silent progress up the escalator to the personnel office. Noiselessly, through empty soundproof offices, they walked together to the ceremonial chamber.
The door they used was the room's only entrance. It was hooked open invitingly. Within was a small conference table of imitation oak, and six chairs of imitation leather. Ceiling, walls, and floor were plastic sheets in soft, sandy shades that harmonized with the furniture's rich browns.
On the table were four wristlets, four anklets, and two belts, all made of iron links and stamped with either Bozzy's or Mr. Kojac's name. As he had been told to do, Bozzy picked out and put on his own set while Mr. Kojac rested in the armchair at the head of the table. Then, breathing noisily, he knelt before Mr. Kojac and fastened the old man's anklets.