Brent Taber took the paper and peered at the signature. "It figures," he said softly. "It figures right down the line."
"He's a fine judge," Charles Blackwell said virtuously.
"He's a skunk. He'll sign anything there's a buck in, and sometimes he'll do it for fifty cents. He'd be a disgrace even to a park bench, and why they haven't caught up with him I'll never know."
"A fine man," Charles Blackwell said, "and the paper is as legal as—"
"Oh, it's legal all right."
Brent Taber lapsed into silence and Charles Blackwell seemed happy to allow him this privilege. All I need, Brent thought, is a court-defiance rap charged against me. Is that what Crane is trying to get? Did he expect me to throw this creep out of my office and leave myself wide open? Maybe, maybe not. If not, what is Crane after? He's certainly achieved his purpose in getting even with an upstart government appointee.
"Okay," Brent Taber said decisively. "You can have the body. Come with me."
He got up, put on his hat, and strode out through the reception room and into the corridor. Charles Blackwell came scuttling along behind. Brent ignored the elevators and went through a door marked Stairway and started down at a fast clip. Charles Blackwell came clopping along behind.
Six flights lower down, Blackwell gasped, "Why don't we use the el—elevator?"
Brent ignored him and went down seventeen more flights. Charles Blackwell was livid when they reached the bottom.