"Mr. Woolsey!"
"Oh, just for a minute, you know. Can't see any harm in it. Matter of fact, should be quite refreshing."
"Yes, but, sir—"
"Oh, come now," said Woolsey, starting to unlace his shoes. "If you'd rather work, go ahead. I want to relax." He took his shoes off and began to work on the socks, humming the strains of Melancholy to himself.
The reporter scratched his head. "I don't want to work," he confessed. "I haven't wanted to work for months. The whole idea of working just makes me sore."
He hesitated a moment, and then reached down for his shoe-laces.
The Martian stood in front of the boss's desk, but this time, there was no nervousness in his manner.
"Chafnu—" said Huber.
"Yes, sir?" said the new foreman.