"Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little."
FitzMaugham chuckled. "In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraid you'll never learn how to relax, my boy."
The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Director to enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen; there was a coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty, covering the panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see his destination.
As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, "Did Mr. Prior come to see you this morning?"
"Yes," Walton said.
"He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?"
"That's right, sir," Walton said tightly.
"He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What was on his mind?"
Walton hesitated. "He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down."
"Naturally," FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. "Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles."