"He just entered our office." The voice that came from the intercom carried the slightest trace of surprise. "He said he desired to discuss something about canned goods and snuff. I shall send him in at once."
Rovance turned to Neinfort-Whritings. "I fear that old Cerobie is becoming senile. Apparently he has lost his mind."
"But really, did he ever have one?"
Nobody laughed. Esrov slammed the restraining order on the conference table and stood up. "Gentlemen, what shall we do concerning—"
"Yes, gentlemen, that is just what I want to know."
Three heads pivoted. Novell Lesquallan, sole owner of Lesquallan Ltd., stood in the doorway. He was a broad, ruddy-faced man with a voice trained to basso interruptions.
"I understand, Mr. Lesquallan," Esrov said, "that you have a matter to discuss with us."
"Yes! Sit down, F.K. We have some talking to do—about that bankrupt, dishonest Acme Interplanetary Express."
"Quite a coincidence," Neinfort-Whritings murmured.
"You got trouble with that outfit, too? That settles it. They've cluttered up the orderly progress of free enterprise long enough. Out they go."