"Mr. Willard Farquar," the fat man murmured, "Miss Arkady Simms."
Jorj Helmuth turned from the conference table with its dozen empty chairs to the two mousily pretty secretaries.
"No word from the door yet, Master," one of them ventured to say.
Jorj twisted in his chair, though hardly uncomfortably, since it was a beautiful pneumatic job. His nervousness at having to face the twelve rocket physicists—a feeling which, he had to admit, had been unexpectedly great—was giving way to impatience.
"What's Willard Farquar's phone?" he asked sharply.
One of the secretaries ran through a clutch of desk tapes, then spent some seconds whispering into her throat-mike and listening to answers from the soft-speaker.
"He lives with Morton Opperly, who doesn't have one," she finally told Jorj in scandalized tones.