"Yes. Oh, he came in by himself. But now, he's trying to be a little coy. Suppose you reason with him."
"Pleasure."
Wizow strode forward to stand over the chair. He struck one hand into the palm of the other, twisting his wrist at each blow. For the first time since Stan had known him, he had a faint smile on his face.
"I don't like you, Graham," he said. "I didn't like you the first time I saw you, and you haven't done a thing to change that first impression.
"Thought you had something funny about you, the way you've always coddled the workmen. Looked as though you were running some sort of popularity contest." Again, he punched his palm.
"And then, there were those suggestions of yours. Smart words—always pushing the wrong people off balance, like other staffmen." The smile became one-sided.
"You know, you haven't made yourself too popular around here. Not with the people that count. I've been getting complaints.
"A good staffman doesn't act the way you do. Good man sees to it the workers work. They don't have to like him—they just get on the job when he's around. Know what'll happen if they slack off.
"And a good staffman leaves the thinking to guys that get paid to do it. He follows established procedure."
He leaned close to Stan, frowning.