"Hello, please, sir," said a voice.
Vogel stared, icily.
Meekness cowered in front of his desk. Meekness in the form of a small birdlike person with beseeching amber eyes.
"I am Amenth," he said, cringing.
Vogel eyed the olive skin, the cheekbones, the blue-black hair. "A wetback," he said. "Three men short and they send me wetbacks. You know sheet metal, buster?"
"I am not of the understanding," Amenth offered. "Experience, no." He beamed. "Aptitude, yes."
Fighting apoplexy, Vogel took him out into the shop. Amenth cringed at the howl of air tools and punch presses. Vogel contemptuously took him by the arm and led him to a workbench where a wizened persimmon of a man performed deft lightnings with rivets and air wrench.
"Benny, this is Amenth. He's new." Vogel pronounced it like a curse. "Get him some goggles from the crib, a rivet gun."
Vogel returned to his office scowling. The phone rang almost instantly.
"Boss," said Benny, "he's from nothing—all thumbs with an air wrench and he don't know alclad from stainless."