Bennington mentally cursed the Civil Service regulations which tied his hands, and left him only one thing to say: "Your immediate resignation."
"Message Center, sir."
"Go ahead." The general looked at the desk clock. 1515. He could guess what they wanted to tell him.
"Sir, the new consignment will be here in about ten minutes."
"Thanks. Pass the word along to Dr. Thornberry and add, I'll meet him at the flagpole in five minutes."
Bennington pushed back his chair, slowly stood up. This had already been a full day's work.
Slater had been worse sober than he had been sleepy and half-drunk. His covering barrage of threats on leaving the prison had been equally divided between the general's personal health and the entire prison setup.
Thornberry had screened the other guards. And, after sitting in on only two sessions, Bennington had at last found one small reason to like his chief assistant. The psych-expert could spot a liar almost before the man opened his mouth.
But right now, and, at the wages offered, probably for a long time, Duncannon was very short of guards.