His three colleagues followed close on his heels. I shook hands with each of them. Two of them I'd known as long as I had Boswell, ever since I'd become the Third Daddy of Fairyland.
There was old Eaker, lean and tall and solemn, with never much to say. The Kids called him Uncle Thin. ("Good to see you, Harry. How are you doing?") Then there was Hopkins, about my age and therefore younger than either Boswell or Eaker. A nice, medium guy, Hopkins—medium build, medium gray hair, medium voice, affable without being garrulous, intelligent without being stuffy. The Kids called him Uncle Hoppy. ("Hi, Dad. How's the gang?")
The fourth Councilman was a stranger. Boswell introduced him as William Pettigrew. He was slightly built, fidgety, shrill-voiced and weasel-faced. His mouth was fixed in a perpetual smirk, and I formed a dislike for him—immediate and intense. I wondered what the Kids would call him, and a suggestion immediately came to mind: Uncle Jerk.
"Can't say as I approve of this place at all," said Pettigrew as we climbed aboard the mono-car. "Matter of fact, I strongly disapprove."
"Well, sir," I said, trying not to gnash my teeth, "I don't quite see how you can be certain until you've seen it."
"Principle. Matter of principle."
I didn't answer. Hoppy caught my eye and winked.
A rousing cheer came from the Kids down in the courtyard as we climbed out of the car. Then I heard the brief, plaintive whimper of Mommy's pitch-pipe and once again the "Welcome Song" reverberated throughout Fairyland. The Uncles waved down at the Kids, with the exception of Pettigrew, who fidgeted until the song was finished. As we descended in the lift, he said: "This place must cost the taxpayers a tidy sum."
"As a matter of fact, we're almost self-sustaining," I said. "A few tons of reactor fuel per annum is all we require to—"