"Softly, softly," said Mr. Ditmars. "The robobar doesn't open itself until four anyway, so you know you're in no hurry.... And, remember, a great artist mustn't be rushed—he is not a machine, you know."
"Hervey McGeachin is bringing him," Mr. Replogle explained. "One could hardly hurry McGeachin," he added ... unnecessarily, for everyone knew that one didn't hurry the richest man in the United States—one awaited his pleasure. Beside being fabulously wealthy, McGeachin had the reputation of being something of a recluse, but this did not make him more newsworthy, for all members of top management tended to be a bit eccentric. The rank was hereditary—it took more than one generation for a family to begin to understand its machines—and there was a lot of inbreeding, with the usual results.
"Orville is a protege of Mr. McGeachin's, isn't he?" asked the lady from Woman's Own.
"Yes," Mr. Ditmars said. "All that was in the press release. He's one of Mr. McGeachin's employees. Mr. McGeachin discovered him personally, and he got in touch with us." Mr. Ditmars almost swelled with visible pride; Mr. Replogle wished he would exercise a bit more self-restraint. Such an open display of emotion was vulgar—almost mechanical, one might say. Especially since they themselves were management, in a way, although one didn't, of course, apply such a word to those who dealt in the arts and crafts. The general public feared and respected the management which governed them, but they loved entrepreneurs.
"A factory hand!" Woman's Own gushed. "What a story that will make!"
The male reporters laughed as one male. "Where have you been all these years, cookie?" asked the World-Post and Journal. "I doubt if there's a factory left in the United States that isn't mechanized to the very hilt by now—with robot labor for the more specialized operations."
"I know," she sighed. "Deep down inside of me I really know. I was just hoping. I suppose I am—" and she batted her eyelashes "—like all females, an incurable romantic. What do you suppose Orville is, then?"
"Might be a clerk," Time-week suggested. "A lot of the big places still use live clerical help for tone, and, of course, you always need a few human beings around in case the machines break down."
"I somehow got the impression that he was an executive," Mr. Ditmars said frostily.
"Let's hope not. It would ruin the human element in the story. You can't expect our readers to identify with management."