"Lyons? About the Amazon Valley deal. Fly in three thousand semi-skilled next week. Get 'em housed in quonset huts and make arrangements with a coast concern for shipments of fresh fruits and vegetables for the central kitchen." He paused. "Better call in the bug experts to liquidate the mosquitoes instead of spending the money for netting and anti-malaria. Cheaper in the long run."
He took time out to gulp some pills from a bottle and wash them down with water from a desk side tap. "Just a quick lunch," he apologized. His voice was brisk. "What can I do for you?"
The small man gestured to himself and his companion. "I'm George Burger, director of the experimental division at Atlantic Motors. And this is Frank Maxwell; he's with the government. We have something important we'd like to discuss...."
"Be glad to,"—Whiteford looked at his watch—"for about four minutes. I have an engagement at eleven. As you were saying, Mister Bircher?"
The small man winced. "Burger. We need...."
A secretary came in on the run.
"Call for you from London, Mr. Whiteford! About dredging the Thames...."
"... a man...."
"I'll take it out there in a moment. Miss Hancock."
"... to pilot...."