The room had the dry, crisp smell of the detecting devices that had been used—the close-to-the-ground, ugly metering-robots that had crawled all over the floor, sniffing up footprints and stray dandruff flakes for analysis, the chemical cleansers that had mopped the blood out of the rug. Walton cursed at the air-conditioner that was so inefficiently removing these smells from the air.
The annunciator chimed. Walton waited impatiently for a voice, then remembered that FitzMaugham had doggedly required an acknowledgment. He opened the channel and said, "This is Walton. In the future no acknowledgment will be necessary."
"Yes, sir. There's a reporter from Citizen here, and one from Globe Telefax."
"Tell them I'm not seeing anyone today. Here, I'll give them a statement. Tell them the Gargantuan task of picking up the reins where the late, great Director FitzMaugham dropped them is one that will require my full energy for the next several days. I'll be happy to hold my first official press conference as soon as Popeek is once again moving on an even keel. Got that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Make sure they print it. And—oh, listen. If anyone shows up today or tomorrow who had an appointment with Director FitzMaugham, tell him approximately the same thing. Not in those flowery words, of course, but give him the gist of it. I've got a lot of catching up to do before I can see people."
"Certainly, Director Walton."
He grinned at the sound of those words, Director Walton. Turning away from the annunciator, he took out his agenda and checked off number one, Cancel FitzMaugham's appointments.
Frowning, he realized he had better add a seventh item to the list: Appoint new assistant administrator. Someone would have to handle his old job.
But now, top priority went to the item ticketed zero on the list: Finish Prior affair. He'd never be in a better position to erase the evidence of yesterday's illegality than he was right now.