Swenson shrugged. "Kismet."
As Mister Cerobie opened the door to his private office, Swenson called after him: "Where's this outfit's attorney?"
"In the Board Room."
"Find him and send him in here."
Mister Cerobie nodded.
"And," Swenson added, "be damned sure that speech insert will run at least ten minutes. More, if possible."
Mister Cerobie slammed the door.
Five minutes later, slim, soft-spoken Van Euing, Acme's attorney, coughed behind the dispatcher's chair. Swenson swiveled from coding the astrogram and dropped his cigarette. "What the hell—oh, you. Lawyers are like policemen—they sneak up on people."
"How did you know I was the firm's attorney?"