The next morning Oliver was on the road in time to stop for a bagel. He made an effort to keep crumbs off his shirt and tie. He was confident that he could handle any software needs that the hospital might have; it was the group dynamic that put him on the defensive. He felt false when he made the little gestures required to fit in. He knew how, but he also knew that eventually he would be unmasked and auto-ejected from the group like a splinter from its hand. Maybe the First Fundamentalists wouldn't be so bad. Here I come, he thought. Love your neighbor. Forgive him his independence. Let's get this over with.
Gifford Sims was large. He wore a dark suit made from a lasting synthetic material. His black hair was carefully combed; his face was square and unsmiling. "Come in," he said, indicating a chair where Oliver was to sit. He rubbed his chin once and gazed out his office window at the carefully tended parking lot. He was not in a hurry to speak, but he did not seem put off by Oliver. That was one thing about being short—you didn't threaten people.
"We had someone in Boston doing the work," he said finally. "Expensive."
"Ah," Oliver said.
"She worked about twenty hours a week, sometimes more."
"I see," Oliver said.
"We don't work on Saturdays unless we have to—babies don't always fit into our schedule." Gifford swiveled from the window and watched Oliver. Hard to blame them, Oliver started to say, but he smiled instead, acknowledging the joke. It was a joke, he was pretty sure, although it was hard to tell from Gifford's expression.
"It appears from your experience that you could handle the work. Are these references current?"
"Yes, they are."
"I have no further questions." Silence. Gifford Sims, conversationalist. Oliver stood.