And he gave him his jets.
2
At Ten Mile, his tape of introduction from World Mine Owners got Scat admitted to a manager's office pronto.
He explained, "I've been commissioned to do an article on how you keep the bugs happy in the world's deepest mine." He didn't say for what publication.
"Of course, we have our standard news releases ... er, Mr. Martin," the manager began tentatively. He was frowning at Scat, trying to place him.
"They're a bit stodgy, I'm afraid," Scat replied. "We wanted something with more life to it—shots of the bugs working the radioactives in the ten-mile drifts, and so on. Pictures of the bugs playing games and going through their primitive ceremonials when Mars is in the sky. All specially posed and rehearsed, of course."
"I see. Yes, there's something to what you say, all right." The manager nodded wisely, pursing his little lips. "It could be made a lot more convincing that way. Of course, we'd have to get an okay from Mr. Kemmerdygn's secretarial offices, Mr. ... er...."
The faraway look that came into his eyes told Scat that the whisper-transmitter behind his ear had gone into action. The manager's expression didn't change very much, but his plump little hand crept down out of sight and pressed something. Donnolan must have squawked loud and fast—and to the right people, Scat decided regretfully.
A couple of barrel-chested men with "bug-boss" written all over them ambled in. The manager came around the table and grabbed at Scat's right arm. Scat evaded the movement, caught his hand, and squeezed; the manager squealed. The bug-bosses moved forward, but Scat released him.