"Well, if I were you, I'd cultivate a lighter touch!" Thurwinker cracked and, without waiting for Roy to reply, he turned and walked out of the shop.
During the next hour, Thurwinker composed twenty-six messages to send back home explaining his failure. Twenty-six messages had been thrown in the wastebasket as unsatisfactory. There really wasn't anything to say. He knew that none of his excuses would be accepted. He was a failure and so he wrote out his resignation. It was a foregone conclusion that the Colonial Office would want it. Thurwinker groaned. He could see himself being held up before the students in the OCD schools as the horrible example.
He was halfway through with what was to be message number twenty-seven when the door opened quietly. Goma stepped in and walked unheard over to Thurwinker's desk.
"I Goma," he mumbled.
"Yaaaaaaaah!" Thurwinker let out a whoop and leaped to the top of his desk, quite convinced that Goma had come to destroy him. "Now, now, now, Chief. Ah—you and I are friends!"
Goma looked at him. "I am not Chief. I am called old female." He looked away from the amazed Thurwinker and sagged into a chair.
"What's the matter, Chief?" Thurwinker asked, climbing down off his desk.
"I am not Chief," Goma replied. "I will be Chief again soon when I...." Goma paused and made cutting motions with his fingers.
"You mean, when you get a haircut?" Thurwinker asked.
Goma shivered and said in a small voice, "Yes."