"But I couldn't hope to produce them for nothing," Brandon insisted. "Not on a large scale, not on the fixed salary that you mentioned!"
"They aren't important, Brandon."
Brandon's lips became a firm, straight line. For the first time it was clear to him why he had been so reluctant to give up his work. His music had pleased people, just as his puppets were doing now. He was getting satisfaction out of his work. He was giving people something no one else seemed to be able to give them. Accepting a position he couldn't handle, working for someone else had nothing to do with it....
"I've changed my mind," he said quietly.
"Changed your mind?" Evans stared at the pen Brandon had carefully laid down on the desk; disbelief disfiguring his face. "You intend fighting that each year?" he pointed at the mad array of papers he had strewn at Brandon's feet. "You're willing to risk not having any time at all to work on your puppets against security and a life of ease?"
"I'm willing," Brandon answered. "Now I think you'd better leave Mr....."
"Evans!"
"Mr. Evans. I might be able to finish these damn things before the midnight deadline."
Evans opened his mouth but Brandon was already showing him the way to the door, shoving something in his hand.