"Not unless I make an error," Brandon said stubbornly. "And I won't. I'm becoming an expert on this. When a man spends one hundred days a year working on these damn things he learns quite a bit. There will be no errors."
"One hundred days!" Evans laughed. "Soon it'll be every day of the year. Then where will you be?" He looked directly into Brandon's eyes. "Can't you see? You're in the web already, working a third of the year without compensation."
Evans pulled from his pocket the the broken puppet he had picked up from the driveway outside Brandon's house. He laid it in front of Brandon on the pile of income tax blanks. "Soon you'll be without income; your business will deteriorate from lack of attention."
Brandon said nothing.
Evans moved to the contour chair and sat down. He closed his eyes. "You've been out of circulation a long time, Brandon. The world is changing. Government is big business, one of the largest, and it's expanding. We need more men, good men."
Evans opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "You said you've become an expert on forms. Would you consider taking a position as head of the tax department?" he asked abruptly.
Brandon lifted his gaze from the desk. "I thought you were with labor?"
"I could arrange it." Evans closed his eyes again.
"But...."
"Think, Brandon. As chief of the bureau, you won't have to answer to anyone, not even the President. You've seen the mess the forms have become. You can straighten it out."