"Far from it. To date I have listed fifty-eight points for which, as far as we can learn, there are no precedents," and the lawyer called a meeting of his staff.
For Belle and Garlock, the week went fast. On Friday afternoon, high above Earth's Galaxian Field, Garlock said, more than half regretfully, "No more fun. Back to the desk. Back to the salt-mines."
"I weep for you," Belle snickered. "Sob, sob. Shed him a tear, Lola."
"One tear coming up. Oh, woe; oh, woe...."
"Oh, whoa!" James snorted. "Why the sob-and-moan routine, Clee, from a guy who's going to be monarch of all he surveys?"
"His conscience aches him," Belle explained. "This monarching business is tough if you haven't thought about how to monarch, and he hasn't. Have you, Clee?"
"Not a lick." Garlock smiled slightly. "I been busy."
"You better start to," she advised, darkly. "You aren't busy now and we have an hour. We better confer—I'll make like a slave-driver."
They 'ported into his room and he set the blocks. His attitude changed instantly. "Nice act, Belle. What was it all about?"
"That theory of yours. Your predictions are too uncannily accurate to be guesswork, and the more times you dead-center the bullseye the worse scared I get. I really want to know, Clee."